


In Another Universe (Maybe We Were Happy.)

by CescaLR



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: 5 + 1 times, Abstergo Industries, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bartender Desmond Miles, But also, COFFEE SHOP ASSASSINS AU, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Clay Kaczmarek Lives, Desmond Miles Lives, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Male Slash, Permanent Character Death, Pre-Canon, Resurrection, Sad Ending, Starbucks are Templars (and you cannot convince me otherwise), Swearing, Tags Contain Spoilers, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Uni Student Clay, awful Juno doesn't win au, desmond decides to bring Clay back with him after the coma-AU, first civilization technology magic deus ex machina stuff, hmm, it's fanfiction who cares, like genuinely it's.... not fun, lots of things that conflict bc of the six -shots taking place in different universes, obviously, so...., the canon bit is based on Revalations and how our dude dies in that, those evil bastards, yeah six -shots make for conflicting tags sorry!!!, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 01:56:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: Five times Clay and Desmond crossed paths and ended up together, and one time they didn't.~~~Not here, not now, but in another time, another place, another Earth... maybe.





	1. A Saviour In Need.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Assassin_J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Assassin_J/gifts), [loosingletters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosingletters/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Treasures and Raw Materials](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14347260) by [esama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama). 



> dedicated to LoosingLetters & Assassin_J because you're both awesome yes thank u for your wonderful comments ur goods, k? Cool :D

i - On The Run. 

> **_"In a few short months, my life changed forever."_ **

* * *

Desmond had done it in the middle of the night. He'd focused, these last weeks, focused on his training - on his stealth, in particular, on how to hide in plain sight, on how to blend into the undergrowth, the bushes, and other people. 

When he snuck out of the house, his mother was waiting for him at the part of the fence he'd been planning to vault; it was shorter than the rest, and the other people on the Farm didn't watch over it as vigilantly.

It was his only chance. 

"Desmond." She'd said. Quiet, subdued. Desmond had never truly hated her, except for when she never stood up to his dad, except for when she let him force Desmond to fight him until he was exhausted, until he was bruised, and wouldn't stop until either of them had drawn the first drops of bright red blood. 

Desmond was apparently important, to them. Descended from their great Ancestors, but who gives a fuck. This isn't renaissance Italy, it isn't the crusades in the middle east, or wherever Altair lived. It's modern day, 2003, late November. He's in Black Hills, South Dakota, the United States of America. 

Things are different. You can't just carry swords out on your person anymore, you can't just  _kill people for money and profit._

That's what assassin's  _do._ No matter the excuses and reasons and lies his dad says. Desmond doesn't want - he's never wanted to be a killer. 

"Mom." Desmond had responded. The woman had sighed, and nodded to him, briefly. 

"So you're set, then?" She'd asked. "I can't change your mind?"

She'd sounded hopeful because of course, she had. Desmond had only shaken his head.

"No," She'd sighed. "No, I didn't think I could."

His mother had held out her hand. On it, was a small metal object; a symbol. Their symbol; the symbol of the freaky fucking cult he'd spent his life with. 

"Please." She'd said. "One day, if you show this to the right person, it might save your life."

Abstergo, his dad's voice had said in his head. Loud and echoey. Overpowering. 

"What about that fake shit about the Templars?" Desmond had demanded. His mother had winced. "It's not fake," She'd said, "Though I can see why you'd think so." His mother had gained a rueful sort of expression. "We never showed you. I'm at fault for that." She had sighed, disappointed, but not in him.

In herself.

"Too young," She quoted herself. "He's too young. Next year." She 'd shaken her head and laughed quietly, saddened. "But next year never came. You're still too young." She'd stared at him, eyes glistening but tears refusing to fall. "Take it." She pleaded. "Desmond, my son, please. For me."

Desmond took it if only so she'd leave and he could go. That's not the case, of course, because he did truly care for his mother. He does, still, even if she'd died before he could tell her. 

"Goodbye, Desmond." She'd said, no more than a murmur. "Good luck."

* * *

 He hadn't really thought about where he'd go. Well, he had, he'd mapped out his journey quite well (and then burned or permanently deleted the evidence) but aside from that, well, he didn't really have anything to his name. No formal education, no driver's license, no nothing. He was sixteen and he'd never stepped foot outside the Farm, unlike many of the other trainees. 

It smarted, it did. But that doesn't matter anymore. Desmond just had to make sure he didn't get caught. Two years. He could manage two freaking years. 

So. He'd left at midnight, because the walk to the city that was nearby but wasn't an obvious choice, like Piedmont, was thirteen hours long. Thereabouts.

And he had some stuff on him for the journey - a backpack with money, clothes, food, drinks, whatever he needed. Even his passport, the one time his dad had let him leave the Farm, though Desmond knew that was only a formality. His mom had been ill and his dad hadn't trusted him enough to leave him alone, so he'd gone with him on his  _mission._ His dad had thought it fit for him to get some things while they were out like it was a freaking shopping trip, so they'd got that shit sorted.

And now Desmond was sort-of glad, because at least he had some form of ID. Something to prove he was a citizen. 

So. He settled in for the walk. 

* * *

Fifteen hours later, due to a few pit stops on the journey and needing to avoid some people and vehicles he recognized, Desmond found himself in Rapid City. On the internet, something they actually had but Desmond rarely got to use so when he did, he used said time wisely, he'd found that the cheapest hotel here was The Nest Hotel, whose cheapest price was 77, but whose most expensive was 113. 

He really hoped not booking in advance was something he could get away with cheaply.

He'd gotten into the city from the direction of the Colonial Pine Hills, so it took a bit more time to walk to the hotel. When he got in, he'd figured he must be a sight but, really, didn't have the energy to care.

Luck must have been on his side because a room was free. And though it wasn't the cheapest estimate, it certainly was nowhere near the most expensive, so he forked over the 83 dollars and made his way into the room. 

Luck also had it that the receptionist didn't question his being a teenager all alone thing, either. 

* * *

And that's kind of how things went. Luckily. But luck runs out, eventually, as it always does. But Desmond's got something other people don't always have... something more important than himself that needs him alive for their plans. 

That something's going to regret this, of course. But Juno doesn't always take all the factors into account. 

* * *

 Desmond was in Minneapolis, Minnesota, when he was attacked. 

"Holy fuck -" Desmond let out, from his place on the floor. The guy had a rock-solid punch, and Desmond was pretty sure his nose was broken. "What the fuck-" He rolled out of the way of the guy trying to kick him, and scrambled to his feet. 

"Who the hell-?" Desmond tried, but he had to grapple with the fist the man sent swinging his way. Desmond was eighteen, now, and it had been a good while since he'd had to fight anyone. 

When he was distracted, he didn't notice the other person striding up to them. The guy attacking him had a mindless sort of determination to beat Desmond into a bloody pulp, so he didn't notice him either.

Then, the figure that had approached them grabbed the man and sliced across his neck. With some form of a blade that Desmond knew all too well.

"You don't need to kill me," Desmond said quickly and fished the small metal symbol his mother had given him out of his pocket. "See?"

"I know that," The person that Desmond could now clearly see was a man said. He pulled down his hood and assessed Desmond. Desmond stored the symbol back in his pocket. The man, obviously a fair few years his senior, had blonde hair, but Desmond couldn't see anything else in the dark. 

"You're Bill's son." The man said. "Desmond. The run-away."

Desmond grimaced and shrugged. "That would be me," He said. He'd forgotten people called his dad Bill. 

The man nodded. "I should knock you out and take you back." He said, easily. "But I won't." 

"Why not?" Desmond asked. 

"Because tonight I need a place to stay," He said. "And I figure you know a cheap hotel?"

"Yeah," Desmond said. He knew one. It had been where he'd stayed upon arriving in this place. 

* * *

" 100 dollars isn't cheap," Clay - the man's name was Clay, apparently - said.

"It is here," Desmond said. "Two beds, please." He asked the receptionist.

When they were in the room, Desmond frowned at the 23-year-old assassin. "I never saw you at the farm," He said. "So when did you join up?"

"A few years back," Clay said. "Literally. I was twenty, or thereabouts."

"Then why are you here and not there?" Desmond asked. "On assignment?"

"Not yet," Clay said. There was a kind of proud arrogance, something pleased with himself, in his expression. "But I will soon. There's a job Bill said only  _I_ could do."

"Right," Desmond said. "Well, my advice? Never trust a single fucking word from my dad's mouth. He says only you can do it? That's because you're _disposable._ If you die, it doesn't matter."

"Bill has our best interests at heart," Clay said, wholly believing every word he was saying.

It made Desmond kind of sick. That his dad could inspire such trust in some random asshole but couldn't even bother being civil to his own fucking son. Hell, he'd attack Desmond more often than not, all in the name of 'training'. Because Desmond had to be some fucking prodigy, or he wasn't enough. Wasn't good enough. 

"Fuck off," Desmond said. "You won't get it. He's _nice_ to the new ones. And the ones that lasted, well, they make excuses."

Clay pursed his lips at him. But he didn't say anything in Desmond's dad's defense. 

* * *

"So what's your  _mission?_ " Desmond asked, snide. "Kill some random fucker that doesn't deserve it?"

"It's classified," Clay said. "But it  _is_ important." Clay frowned at him. "And," He emphasized, "We don't kill innocents. It may not be stated in the Oath, but it is a part of our Creed. We aren't hitmen, Desmond."

"Yeah right," Desmond said. "You kill people for money."

"We kill for our cause," Clay said. "To save the world."

"Spare me the rhetoric," Desmond snapped. "Trust me, I've heard it all before. Templars, Assassins, a war spanning the history of the fucking world, yadda yadda yadda."

"I guess growing up around it is different," Clay allowed. "But it's  _true."_

"How the fuck do you know that?" Desmond demanded. "It's a cult, I mean - we live on 'The Farm' in the middle of nowhere and most of us never leave, and we don't go to school and we don't learn shit that would ever actually be helpful, just how best to slice open someone's throat."

"Seems like you've made up your mind." Clay said. 

"I don't get how you don't see it," Desmond said. "I'm going," He added, abrupt. 

"What?" Clay asked, confused. "I'm not staying here listening to someone worship the ground my asshole of a dad walks on," Desmond said. "Alright? I got outta that. And, yeah, you know what? You should too. Before he asks too much of you and you end up dead somewhere nobody will ever find. Because you don't  _matter_ to him. No-one does. Only his excuse for a  _cause_ makes him feel anything at all."

And Desmond got up, practically sprinted out of the room.

Clay watched him go. Thought about his own dad. How people tended not to believe you about the reality of things, regarding your parents, even if they weren't well-liked individuals.

And he could admit Bill was oftentimes harsh to the recruits. To the trainees, and the kids, and the adults. But it was for good reason.

Even still. Something like someone's son being so adamant about how awful they were, they  _are..._ it tends to sow the seeds of doubt, even in the most faithful individuals. 

* * *

 Desmond never expected to see Clay again. Two years later - two years of odd jobs and working all day at multiple part-time establishments to finally get enough money to afford his way to living in New York as cheaply as was possible - he found the man in question standing outside the cafe, in the rain. 

"What the hell are you doing?" Desmond asked. Clay - now around twenty-five - was staring up at the sky, eyes closed.

"Trying to make sure I remember what it's like." He said. "I mean, I've got a few more years, yet, Abstergo aren't far enough along for them to risk sending me in even with as little as I know because I probably won't be able to get anything useful, but..." He trailed off, allowed the rain to wash over him.

"Come inside," Desmond said. "Come on, man, this is weird."

Clay laughed, lightly, but followed Desmond inside. His co-worker was a student, last year of high-school, but she was a part of that new-ish Scene craze all the same; black hair with bright streaks. In her case, pink and aquamarine. 

"Hey, Shell," Desmond said, "Could you grab a towel from the back for this idiot, thanks?"

"Sure Des," She nodded, rolled her eyes. A minute later, with Clay now sat in one of the booths, Shelley returned with a couple towels. "Only got the hand ones, obviously," She said, "So I grabbed a few. D'ya think he needs a coffee or somethin'?"

"Maybe," Desmond said. "I'll ask and see. Thanks for the towels."

"No prob," She nodded, and vaulted the counter to get back to work. Mostly, since the place was closed, she was just cleaning up. 

"I'm not an idiot," Clay said when Desmond returned with the towels and handed them over. 

"You were standing outside in some pretty fucking heavy rain," Desmond said. "I think that qualifies."

"Not really," Clay said. "But I mean, you won't get it."

"Try me," Desmond said. 

"i've got this mission." Clay said. "Classified, of course," He added, and Desmond rolled his eyes. "But it's important."

"As they always are." Desmond said, dryly, sarcastically. They're never important. They're just used to make the cult members feel like the cult isn't lying to their fucking faces. 

"I've gotta wait until Lucy - one of the born assassin's, she would'a been about fifteen when you left - infiltrates Abstergo. Which is gonna take a fair few years." Clay paused, rubbed his hair with one of the towels. "But uh, once that's done, I just gotta... let myself get caught." Clay said. 

"Let yourself get caught?" Desmond asked, slowly.

"Yeah." Clay said. "Get over to Italy and hang around there for a few months, pretend to get sloppy and let the assholes at Abstergo take me wherever. Then I do some stuff from the inside."

"Right," Desmond said, slowly, "Because even though the whole 'Templar' thing is cult rhetoric and Abstergo are simply a genetics company... that is definitely not the most stupid plan I've ever heard."

"Is that sarcasm, Miles?" Clay said, unimpressed. 

"Uh, yes," Desmond said. "Obviously." He paused and glanced around. "Look," Desmond added, quieter, to make sure Shelley couldn't hear them, "You're an Assassin, right? Trained in stealth and whatever the fuck else. Why not just... sneak in, take the data, and sneak out again? Do the whole assassin thing on whichever 'Templar' is leading the project? Why is my dad sending you on what sounds exactly like a  _suicide mission?_ "

"Because they killed your mother, Desmond," Clay said, equally quietly. "And this is the easiest way to get revenge."

Desmond blinked at Clay. "What?"

"How were we supposed to tell you if you've cut all contact?" Clay asked. "Your mom's dead, Desmond. Subject nine... Elizabeth Miles."

* * *

 

Desmond walked home in silence, the Assassin beside him the whole way back to his apartment. When they arrived, Desmond let them both in and then shut the door behind himself with a  _click._

He went into the area of his tiny two-room apartment he generously called the living space and sat on the cheap couch he'd bought last Wednesday. 

His mom was dead. Desmond opened his wallet and took the symbol out of its place behind his fake ID. 

He hadn't used his real one in years. Not since his old Cult nearly found him again. In fact... Desmond's pretty sure that's why Clay was there that first time. To bring him back ' _home'._

But he didn't. And so here they are. 

"My mom gave me this," Demond said, holding up the small metal symbol. "The night I left. She was waiting at the fence. I guess I didn't hide my plans well enough. But Dad never suspected, so..." Desmond shrugged. 

"Your mother was an infiltrator." Clay said. "But Abstergo have started doing blood tests. And through her, they found ties to Altair. So she was thrown in the test subject corner instead. Lucy's been sent as... well. Her replacement, I suppose. No special ancestry there, no need to throw her in the machine."

"How can you-" Desmond demanded -

"They've moved onto subject Ten," Clay said, barreling on. "The only reason they'd do that was if she..."

"Died," Desmond said. "But how do you even  _know?_ This is all  _bullshit,_ it's  _always_ been  _bullshit."_ Desmond closed his fist around the symbol. "They trained us to fight and to kill and to die since we said our first word, or so it feels like," Desmond said. "They taught us how to slice open a man's neck when we were five, how to shoot someone when we were ten. The guns kept making us fall over, and if we fell, then it was into the  _training ring_ for us. Dad or Mom would say enough shit to get us to fight them then punish us for it because we fell to goading and Assassin's are  _better than that,_ better than Templars, the boogeymen, the people who don't hide in the shadows like we have to, the reason we do, the people who want us dead."

He glanced at Clay. "D'you wonder why the most well-adjusted Assassin's aren't the born ones?" He asked, rhetorical. "Because the born ones are attacked by their own goddamn  _parents_ every single day. It's a cult based on fucking abuse, based on making its people think there's something out there trying to kill everyone, control everyone, and they're the only people who know... it's goddamn textbook. So  _all of it is bullshit."_

Desmond threw the symbol across the room, and it embedded in the cheap, soft wood of his kitchen countertop. 

"I fucking hate all of you," Desmond said. "Yeah. Even her. And it's  _more fucking bullshit_ that I'm even vaguely sad she's dead."

"It's not," Clay said. "She is dead, Desmond. And she's your mother - and..." Clay sighed. "It - it isn't  _not_ fucked, what The Farm does, but... how else are you supposed to raise kids that aren't gonna die immediately? The only reason you're alive right now is because you know how to keep yourself off the grid. And they taught you that."

"They didn't teach me fucking  _shit,"_ Desmond said. "I taught myself, asshole. They taught me how to kill and how to listen to orders and never question them on anything because I was just a kid, see, but they also taught me that the only reason I'm alive is because the Templars haven't found them yet, and it was an inevitability. So even if i  _did_ believe - which I  _don't -_ it would have been fucking stupid to stay." Desmond said. 

"I didn't know my mother." He said, flatly. "She was never around and when she was, she was teaching us all how to kill people and how to fight people bigger and smaller than ourselves and how to fight when we're up against someone the same size, and she taught us how to  _die._ "

She was the one who taught us torture." Desmond said. "Not how to administer it. But how to keep yourself from talking when subjected to it. Because the Creed is worth more than anything, including your life, and  _especially_ your family and the things and people you love."

"We're trying to save the world," Clay snapped.

"Even if you are, who gives a shit?" Desmond said. "I'd rather the world explode than torture kids. There's gotta be a better way. And there is, because guess what, Clay? It's a goddamn  _lie._ All of it."

"No, it's not." Clay said, and he got a look in his eyes Desmond recognized. He'd seen it in the mirror when he'd decided that leaving was his only option - that staying would get him killed, whether or not the cult's rhetoric was true (it wasn't).

The older man left the apartment, and Desmond got up and slammed the door behind him. 

* * *

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Desmond asked. It's been a couple months. Desmond's gotten a more stable job, one that pays well enough so that he can cut down the number of jobs he needs to do and still pay the rent, have some time to do other things. 

Not that Desmond does much else. He doesn't really have much going on. So he works extra hours and maybe spends some time at the gym because what the fuck else is he going to do, living at the Farm didn't exactly give him normal pastimes, and he plainly refuses to take up 'lessons' in martial arts because he'd done it for most of his life and he's profoundly sick and tired of knowing exactly how to murder everyone he comes across in at least ten different ways with each object he can see in his peripheral vision, including the other person's stuff. And Desmond's brick of a non-usable phone. 

"Proof." Clay said. He looked a bit frazzled, and Desmond sighed. He let the other man in because really, he could do without the gossip slamming the door in his face would cause - it doesn't help keep a low profile, really - and so Clay entered, moved over to Desmond's new - somewhat decent - couch, and sat down, dropped a rather thick looking folder onto his crappy coffee table.

"What?-" Desmond started.

"There's a new guy, Shawn Hastings," Clay said. "Idiot hacked into Abstergo and found shit he shouldn't. Anyway, we found him before the Templars did. So... here's a copy of what he found."

Desmond frowned at the other man.

"Look at it," Clay gestured, impatient, tapping away at his knee. 

"You hyped on coffee or something?" 

 Clay looked at him flatly. "Read it," He said, annoyed. 

Desmond rolled his eyes. "You know cults like to fake shit, right?" He said, but still, he dutifully picked up the large folder and had a look through. 

"This isn't fake," Clay said. "Of course, Abstergo hushed it up, but it's true. And Shawn's new, he hasn't even met Bill yet. So in your 'cult' theory, he hasn't been 'exposed' enough yet to have been 'indoctrinated', so to speak."

"Whatever man," Desmond sighed, flicked through the files absently. "All of this is-"

Desmond paused. 

"Yeah." Clay said. "He got some of the data on the subjects. Not that they referred to them by name, but a picture's more damning, don't you think?"

"... What's your assignment?" Desmond asked, slowly.

"Now he gets it," Clay said, grinning slightly. "Once Lucy's full on in, then it's my turn. About the time they're around Subjects fourteen and fifteen, if everything goes smoothly. Maybe sixteen."

"What are you supposed to do?"

"Get information," Clay said. "We don't have an animus. And I've got the genetic data we need. The only way we can get at Ezio right now is through me - Bill's too valuable."

"Like I said." Desmond looked at Clay. "You're disposable to them."

"No." Clay returned his look. "I'm an invaluable asset. Priceless, even. Of course, if you were still around - it'd be a bit less of our one shot at this to get it right, and more a trial run, but the end result is still the same."

"So they've cut ties with you then?" Desmond asked, flicking through the rest of the folder. If any of it  _is_ true, which is unlikely - Clay could well have forged the documentation and everything else himself, though the CCTV screenshots might have been more difficult, it still could easily be staged footage - it is all pretty damning. But it doesn't prove jack shit about Templars. (Except maybe some of the stuff they call each other. The titles and things.) Just that Abstergo is as fucking crazy as The Farm is. 

Assassins and Templars. Genetic Memory. Animus. His mother being dead. All of its fucking bullshit. Designed to get him back.

He should run. Cover his tracks. Maybe finally get himself over to NYC. Get out of Minneapolis. 

Make sure this asshole can't find him again. 

"Not yet." Clay said. "But soon. I need to be as out of the loop as is possible when Lucy plants the idea to come after me. It's a little while, yet, they're still on subject eleven."

"One of yours?" Desmond asked.

"Not every descendant of Altair or Ezio or any number of key Assassins is an Assassin themselves, Desmond." Clay smirks at him. "An example would be you yourself."

"And it's staying that way." Desmond snapped, dropped the folder onto the coffee table.

After a pause, a rather awkward bit of silence, Desmond sighs. "So then what?" Desmond asked. "Where are you gonna go?" 

"I guess I'll pretend to go back to working for my Dad." Clay said, after a moment. It sounded reluctant - a poorly hidden distaste for the idea evident in his expression and tone.

"Don't like your dad, huh?" Desmond asked.

"None of your business," Clay said. 

"You know the bad blood between me and my dad," Desmond said. "It's only fair."

"The world isn't fair," Clay said, flatly. "But yeah, no. Back on topic - I'll rejoin my dad's construction company."

"Sounds fun," Desmond said. "Having a normal life. Make the most of it."

"It's not." Clay said. 

"Who said you had to do that anyway?" Desmond asked. "Why do you have to go straight back?"

"I don't." Clay said. "But I don't exactly have anywhere else."

"Isn't there anything better you could be doing with your time?" Desmond asked. 

"Studying," Clay shrugged. "Making sure my coding and hacking is as perfect as it can be. Making sure that I understand the Animus top to bottom and inside and out. Back to front."

"Then why don't you do that?" Desmond asked. "Work odd jobs, stay away from your dad, since you obviously don't like him much. Find a place to stay, study your coding and shit?"

"You know what?" Clay said. "Because that's fucking stupid. They'd grab me before I could say anything at all."

"No, they wouldn't." Desmond rolled his eyes. "I've been gone from the Farm for years, if the boogeymen Templars do exist, they're much worse at the whole tracking thing than the Assassins are."

Clay paused and looked at Desmond, assessing.

Desmond didn't like that look very much.

"You know what?" Clay said, and Desmond did not like where this was going at all.

"You seem to know how to do it," Clay said. "Laying low. Being found only when you want to be." Clay shrugged, leaned back. "Maybe I should stick with you for a bit."

"Fuck no," Desmond said.

"Fuck yeah," Clay grinned. "Yeah, that sounds like a plan."

* * *

 

Desmond knew what he was doing. And if this asshole was going to be staying, then fuck it. New York, it is. He's been here too long, anyway. He's starting to get too paranoid about it. 

Desmond manages to wrangle a recommendation from his boss at the bar to another one called 'Bad Weather', so when he steps foot in NYC, at least he knows he's got a place to work. Clay, on the other hand, is gonna have to start from the bottom. 

"We need to get you an ID," Desmond said. 

"I've got one," Clay said, "And, before you say anything, yes, it's fake. An assassin can't exactly go around shouting their real name from the rooftops." He added, dryly. 

"Alright," Desmond said. "Good." He nodded. "Right, well," He shrugged. "Go to a library and see if they've got internet, and if they do, check for some jobs or something," Desmond said. "Bad Weather is in a less than great neighbourhood, but it's got some rich patrons, so we know it's not exactly the safest bet, but ti's what we got. So staying nearby is a tossup between safe and fucking stupid." Desmond paused. "So we're gonna stay at least five blocks away... which means I'm on aparment hunting."

"Alright then." Clay nodded. "I guess...?" He trailed off.

"We'll meet back at this cafe." Desmond nodded, confirming. "See you then."

"See you then," Clay echoed.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, I know this is ridiculous but I've already lost inspiration. So this is where this section ends.  
> What I had planned was more of a snowball effect of changes. From this, to Clay not going, to Desmond not being captured, to the solar flare occuring, to them finding shelter, to them finding assassins, somwhere along the way Desmond accepts that all this is, unfortunately, not bullshit and starts training himself up again and also somewhere along the way - probably the reason why Clay and Desmond don't end up in the animus at the hands of Abstergo at any point because the time between 11 and 16 subjects wise is quite a few years - Clay and Des get together. I wouldn't write it all in a tonne of detail, of course, we'd probably end the -shot when they decide to leave the shelter from the solar flare and enter the apocalypse together to find any remanents of the Assassin order (only to find the Templars were super prepared for this shit and now they need to start something to overthrow the bastards... ooh)


	2. And On This Island (We're Set Free).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond touches the Eye, and for one minute - sixty seconds; a long time for what it was - he's more than just Desmond Miles. 
> 
> Minerva's Eye is omniscience. It's, in a sense, also omnipotence. 
> 
> For a mere - a long time, really - sixty seconds, Desmond Miles might as well have been a God.
> 
> And Desmond Miles sacrificed himself to save the world, not for what Juno has planned. And that minute, those sixty seconds, he knew what she had planned.
> 
> But he was dying. So. He made a way to fix it. Some of it. Not all of it, of course. But some.

ii - The Island Resurrection AU Because Apparently, That's A Thing.

* * *

 There is a minute there - when Desmond touches the Eye - that  _everything_ is clear. Everything he never knew, everything he'd never known - it's all so fucking  _clear._ Everything from the fact that his mother  _died and his dad never told him, for the last time - and it is because Desmond **is** dying - fuck you, dad -_ all the way through to quantum mechanics and the total extent of the universe... he _knows_ it, for that minute.

He also knows how malleable it all is. How time, though more than a manmade construct in it's essence, is so... warp-able. How something that happened can so easily be undone. 

Desmond has to die. For this minute to happen, Desmond has to die, and he has to die  _here._ There. At the Grand Temple, to Juno's manipulations and Minerva's Eye. 

For that to happen, Subject Sixteen has to die in order to sacrifice his last remanents to save Desmond. But Lucy - that wasn't necessary. And really, Cross - what happened to him was a hindrance. He could have so easily made this never happen. And his mother - never around, always vaguely cruel, she was like that to all of them, though she was lenient to him more often than not - she loved him, she did, as attached as she could be with the mission she had - she didn't need to be a subject. There are so many other descendants in the grand scheme of things. Many of them terrible people. It could have been one of them - and that saves lives too, saves a child that died in a bank robbery...

Desmond pokes and prods and picks at the fabric of reality, for that minute. Sixty seconds feels like an eternity when you  _know_ eternity and can do what you will with it - sixty seconds  _is_ an eternity when time means nothing and can be made as long or as short as you want. 

He makes a safe place. Somewhere to regroup. To piece people together again. 

* * *

Desmond wakes up on a beach. More accurately, he... exists again, on a beach.

The first thing he's really aware of is the smell. The salty sea breeze he breathes in. Then, the feel of the sand - the water that's in his shoes, which isn't the most pleasant feeling, to be honest. Then he hears the waves.

Then, he hears a voice. 

"Seventeen." It says. "Wakey wakey. C'mon, Seventeen. _Desmond Miles,_ wake up."

Desmond comes into his second existence on a beach. The only other person there is Clay Kaczmarek.

This feels like a rehash. A remix. Something that's happened before. That's because it has. 

Turns out, it's not because none of this ever happened, and he somehow has knowledge of it. It's because it's _real._ And the animus wasn't. 

 "C'mon, Desmond," The voice says. Desmond knows that voice, vaguely, definitely, almost intimately - it happens, when you spend a lot of time with someone and - technically - only that someone, and when they sacrifice themselves for you. Even if you never technically met  _them,_ just a construct, a partial AI of their own making... you know that voice. You'd know it anywhere.

Subject Sixteen. Clay Kaczmarek. 

Desmond opens his eyes - slowly. It takes a few minutes for him to realise he has eyes to open in the first place. 

"So you aren't dead, then," Clay says. It sounds like him - but different. But... more real, Desmond supposes. Not filtered through ones and zeroes and lines of code, and the Animus' (while good) less than realistic simulations. 

"No," Desmond says. "I died. Definitely."

So he can talk then. That must mean he can sit up. Desmond moves his arms, the way he's always done, and pushes himself into a sitting position, leaning on his arms then leaning on nothing, and he stares out, out to the open ocean. 

Nothing. Nothing as far as the eye can see. Just this island, and as far as he knows, just them. Like before - but different. 

"So I failed," Clay says. "My task - my job... my - my  _purpose_ was to save your life. To keep that little brain of yours intact. And I didn't manage it."

"Oh - no," Desmond denies, turns his head - where _he_ is. In the flesh, for the first time. Desmond never met the whole Clay. Just - an imprint. What Clay, while Bleeding (both literally and mentally) thought needed to remain. "No - you saved me then. I didn't get deleted." Desmond says. "It's just - in the end - I died. Juno..." Desmond winced, the memories fresh. 

One minute of -  _that._ Burned him alive, from the inside out, from the mind to the brain to the bones to the blood and muscle and skin. Nothing, not even the First Civilisation, is built to withstand what amounts to  _godhood._

"Juno's plan - I used the Eye," Desmond says. "Which freed her. She stopped the flare, in a sense. Saved Earth. In the process..." Desmond sighs. "I freed her. And now, _now_ she's gonna go enslave the human race, and I guess saving everyone meant dooming them, or something. There's - nothing I can do, now. Being dead."

"We're not dead," Clay shrugs as if that's not - something. He's just sitting there, on a rock, like he was usually doing when Desmond got back from the Sync Nexus (to go dive into his own goddamn memories or - just a break, even if that was mildly stupid) whenever he wasn't just... not there. 

Or deciding to be a dick and glitching into existence halfway  _through_ Desmond. He did a lot of that; fucking around with the glitching. Especially if Desmond spent too long not in the Sync Nexus or fixing up his own self's memories. 

"How - how, how would you even _know_ that?" Desmond demands, but it's not really a demand. He's still too tired, too worn out. Apparently, dying takes it out of you. Who knew. 

"We're real," Clay says. "Trust me - spend enough time as a digital construct, you know when you're alive and breathing and you've got  _blood_ pumping through your veins. You can practically  _feel it._ That pulse."

There's a weird look on Clay's face. Desmond can't quite decipher it. But - aside from that, now that Desmond looks - 

"Dude, your arms." Desmond blurts out, because holy shit. That looks like first civ tech, that does. 

"I suppose it counts my death as hugging you," Clay says, shrugging, leaning back on his rock. This place actually does look like a pretty decent recreation of Animus Island, except there's no Sync Nexus and the weather is nicer, plus there are trees and shit. It's more of a livable place, in general. Which, if Clay's right and they're not dead, is good news. 

"What... what would that have anything to do with anything?" Desmond asks. Clay gestures; points at Desmond. "Your arm," Clay says. "That's how you died, in a sense. Touching the Eye."

Desmond blinks and looks down. Right. His arm. 

What the  _fucking shit._

Blackened skin - like it's been burned, like it's been fucking _barbequed_ , but Desmond touches it because he has to know... but it doesn't feel like burnt skin, all crispy and flaky. It's soft-ish, like his normal skin. If he presses down, the skin lightens, slightly, like when you press on a non-threatening rash, but it goes back quick-flash. And then there's the circuitry. 

"What the fuck," Desmond says, flatly, bemused. It goes all the way up to his elbow, like a gradient - the skin returns to normal but the circuitry takes a little longer to hide away... somewhere. 

"That would be how you died," Clay repeats himself, kind of. "The Eye killed you, and that's how you made contact with it. Saving you from being deleted killed the last remnants ofmy fractured psyche given AI form, so it seems to have attempted to... show that."

"Right," Desmond says. "Okay."

Desmond stands. He grimaces and takes his shoes off, empties them of water. Since he's on a beach, he doesn't bother putting them back on because -  _sand._ That would be uncomfortable at best. 

"Where do you think we are, then?" Desmond asks. "If we're not dead?"

Clay shrugs, leans back, crosses his arms behind his head and grins, a little, and it's as oddly unnerving as it's always been, so Desmond figures he hasn't changed much since they last spoke. Not that he would have had a chance to, being dead and all. 

"Who the fuck knows, seventeen?" Clay asks, obviously rhetorical. "Who the fuck knows?"

* * *

Desmond figures he must be alive when he realises he's  _hungry._

"So you were a god," Clay says, slowly, and Desmond makes a vague noise; protesting - Clay looks at him, flatly, and repeats himself - "You  _were a God,_ and you didn't think to resurrect us without the need to eat and all the other shit?" Clay says, flatly, question rhetorical and expression making it obvious how stupid he thinks Desmond is for that. 

"I wasn't a god," Desmond says, protesting. "And, no, apparently not. I don't really remember. It's mostly just - really bright pain."

"Well, you were burned alive and had a cave collapse on top of you," Clay says, easily, "I imagine that hurt a bit."

Desmond rolls his eyes and stands, starts walking.

"Where're you going?" Clay asks, stands, and walks alongside him. 

"We've been sitting around not even talking for ages," Desmond says. "Why not have a look around the island we're stuck on for the foreseeable future?"

"Sure," Clay shrugs. "Might as well."

* * *

They get set up. Desmond finds himself doing a lot of fishing because apparently, this is an actual island with an actual ocean surrounding it. They're not just alive and living in some sort of construct, but alive and living in some form of a  _reality._ A word. Something - somewhere -  _real._

Fishing by stabbing things with your hidden blade is an interesting thing. In that, it's very awkward and Desmond doesn't currently have any clothes meant for swimming in, so he just ends up sitting on the sand in soaked through jeans. Great. 

Aside from that - Clay, though he never  _liked it,_ particularly,  _did_ take an engineering degree. So he does a lot of the planning and things for the structures and other stuff they need - there are plants here, and after that first night they found some barrels wash up on shore so there  _must_ be something other than this island  _somewhere,_ but they can't exactly build a seaworthy vessel, so they can't do much about that.

Regardless, Clay does a fair bit of building, and Desmond helps. Without all the technology Clay is used to it takes a bit longer, but at least they were both trained to survive in the wild - Desmond by Connor and Clay by the assassins before he went into Abstergo and died - so in the meanwhile, they have shelter and hammocks and a fire pit. 

This island might be real in _a_ reality, but it's not quite their old one. See, the trees grow back at what you might say is an alarming rate. They found this out when they had to cut down one of them to get support pillars for the hut, and the next day, what Desmond had figured the thing's seeds were which he'd planted had grown fully. 

So. They have resources. They have food, from the coconuts and other tropical plants, and they have water from the purifier that Desmond built and the rain catcher that Clay made. 

But otherwise... they don't have much to do, here. 

* * *

A few weeks later, Desmond finds - or spots, with Eagle Vision - a shipwreck on the reef that's just a few meters out from shore. 

It doesn't look too bad. Except for the fact that it's  _really_ old. 

"All that wood's useless," Clay says, once they get back to shore. There's not much to do, aside from talk and swim, so a lot of the latter happens. They don't have much they'd be comfortable talking about. 

"It could have some stuff left on it," Desmond says. "Looks like an eighteenth-century model. A whaler, actually, but I don't know what that's doing out here. No whales, too shallow."

"I doubt it'll have much," Clay says. "The wood's all rotted and most of it's gone. Hell, it's a miracle the thing's still there."

"Sure," Desmond says. "But I'm having a look anyway."

* * *

The vessel appears to have crashed on a cave because Desmond finds himself underwater but breathing air. He looks around the cave - at the rock walls, the shore-like edges... and the obvious first-civilisation designs on the back wall, far too smooth and precise to be anything other than  _purposefully made._

Desmond - when he catches sight of it, after surfacing from the water (and he'd gone too deep, too far, he'd run out of air  _but he hadn't drowned,_ and Desmond wonders if he made them  _quite_ human when he brought them back) and rolls onto the underground shore. 

He stares at it, for a moment, then -  ** _bright pain, her screaming, screeching in triumph, then she's gone but there's power, still to activate the eye they hadn't needed that many power sources only needed them to free her but it gave him more time kept him here longer gave him energy he's dead his body is fried but here; machines and science so advanced to them it might as well be magic... Desmond can do things can do this and this is something he can do and will do and Lucy never had to die she never had to betray them make it so she never betrayed them wasn't a Templar he doesn't kill her still goes into coma that has to happen to meet Clay to fix his brain with this technology to make it the way it needs to be and his mother never had to die make it that descendent the one that killed a child doesn't deserve anything good she can live William doesn't have to lie to him about her being fine but wait they can't just join back in reality they're dead he needs to fix that he can't fix that for this to happen he needs to do something they never deserved this end - wait he's got time, all time, time now and time then and time forever for these sixty seconds for this eternity - just put it in their heads, teleport, an island, like the one they used - yes there, underground, no one finds it, yes - temple, another temple, time, give them time - teleport, that will kill them, bodies aren't meant to survive that, fix that, make them more, easy, tweak DNA, memory, twist here turn there more of Them in their blood make this work make it work please anything make this work -_**

When Desmond comes back to awareness, he can taste vomit on his tongue and he's curled up on his side, staring at the wall still - the world is in muted grey-blues and everything is dark but the wall is bright, a golden glow, neither blue or red but something - a point of interest, his target, what he's here for. 

Desmond grimaces and pulls himself into a sitting position - luckily, it seems he'd thrown up into the water and not on himself, which saves the smell - and then stands, a little strange feeling but not in any kind of pain, but there's an echo of it in his limbs and his arm twinges. 

Desmond sighs then turns around and dives into the water. 

He should probably tell Clay. 

* * *

 

"I found a shark," Clay says, in lieu of a greeting. "And?" Desmond asks, grimacing at the feeling of wet denim against his legs and sand pretty much... everywhere.  

"I killed it," Clay says. "Problem is, there are probably more around here."

"Well, luckily for us... we won't have to be here much longer," Desmond says. "I might've done something when I used the Eye."

"Oh, so was God-Desmond actually useful then?" Clay says, stands and fruitlessly brushes sand off of his trousers. Desmond doesn't bother rising to the bait, and shrugs. "I did a lot of useful things," Desmond says. 

"Oh yes," Clay says, "Fixed up Cross' head, stopped Lucy from turning traitor, and stuck us on a deserted island with nothing but each other. Super helpful, there, Seventeen."

"And I did a lot of other shit I don't remember," Desmond says. "Including, apparently, getting the Isu to build a temple smack bang under this island that can let us teleport anywhere there's another temple. Any _when,_ too."

"Any _when?"_ Clay asked, immediately intrigued. "The past," Desmond clarified, "Now or the past - because in 'the calculations' it's easy enough to alter that." He said, not really understanding the words but  _knowing,_ all the same. 

"Well then," Clay grinned, stalked over to the ocean. "Let's go have a look, shall we?" He asked, rhetorical, and dived under. 

* * *

 

"And there it is," Clay breathes, as they emerge into the underwater cave. "How do we get in?" He asks, and Desmond knows this - it hurts to think about, so he doesn't - he just moves, places his hand on the wall. There's a sound, and his arm  _burns,_ the deadened nerves - because they had been killed, Desmond couldn't feel anything on that arm, even if he was shot in it - alight once more and then it's gone, and the wall is opening, and Desmond steps back, massages his arm as the echoes of bright pain fade away. 

Clay doesn't bother waiting for the wall to open fully, he simply wanders on under it, ducking, and marches onward, stalking forwards into its depths - the Temple's dark, down there, but the two of them have eagle vision, and it helps enough. Desmond follows a moment later, the dark blue-greys flattening the world out, in a way, and the two of them make their way down the corridor. The floor is tilted, like a ramp - it leads down, and Desmond tracks the golden lines on the walls and the floor as he moves along. Clay appears to be analysing the glyphs, but not as intently as he would have thought. His eyes flick over all of them - and through eagle vision, he's blue, bright blue, and there's a comfort in that because, well, even Rebecca (Shawn didn't like him very much and Lucy was a traitor so in the end her colour didn't matter) was a muted blue. 

His dad - his mom, even - most of the people at the farm hadn't exactly been blue. Purple-ish, and even sometimes red... Desmond has always thought the colour you saw represented how you perceived their threat level. Because he's pretty sure his dad wouldn't consider himself  _red._ Desmond had, for a long while. He'd died before he could see if that had changed.

They emerged into a large, cavernous room not unlike the Vatican's temple but bigger, and more decorated, in the sense that there was  _something_ there. 

And of course, Desmond could feel a presence. But in his minute with the Eye, he made absolutely  _certain_ that Juno would not know of this. Her schemes had to stay, unfortunately, for it to happen in the first place - but she didn't have to know about the things he changed. If she thought certain people were dead, that could only be useful.

Clay walked over to the two chairs in the centre of the room. They looked like chairs - more like Rebecca's Baby, the Animus 2.0, but not quite. Made of the same smooth rock, using the same strange holographic projection that appeared to come from nowhere as some form of visor - it had no armrests, and the shape of the seats looked made precisely for the two people now standing in the room.

"Juno's Cipher." A voice says. Minerva, of course - but not just her. Jupiter; Tinia, too. He hasn't spoken yet, though, content to simply stand by, watching avidly with that same disconcerting gaze all the Isu had. Of the Ones That Came Before, these two appeared to be the most least likely to kill him on a regular basis, so if any of them found out, it made sense for it to be these two. 

"Not just Juno's," Jupiter says. "He used your Eye. That makes him more than Juno's anything."

"True," Minerva allows. Her voice is cold and distant - she'd never liked Juno, from what Desmond can tell. And he'd freed her. "In a way that it was never meant to be used."

"And yet it could have been," Jupiter says, and he sounds - he's detached, as they always are. But these holograms... from what Desmond knows, they're  _them._ Looking forward from the past, from the last days of their existance. So... Desmond almost thinks he sounds angry. 

"It would not have worked," Minerva says, blunt. "The Calculations are the same. The world for us burns. It always does."

"But not for them." Jupiter agrees. "Juno was something we should have known would happen. That she would manage what she did."

"But we didn't," Minerva says. Desmond thinks, if she were more real, she would have sighed at that. But the Isu - their emotions are different. Sometimes, it feels like they don't have them at all. 

"We are mere hours away from our destruction," Minerva says. "For us, that is millennia here - for you, the power left in this temple will leave within moments."

"Juno is waiting," Jupiter says, and suddenly, Desmond is moving. Clay is, too, out of the corner of his eye Desmond can see that - but he doesn't pay attention. 

"She knows you have changed time," Minerva says. "That you have changed yourselves. Go  _back._ As far as you can. Hide. Prepare. Defeat her before she has the chance to  _rise."_

Alright, Desmond thinks.  _As far back as you can._

The farthest back he knows is Altair's time. It will have to do. 

Desmond finds himself lying back, and the holograms of Minerva and Jupiter flicker as the visor moves over his eyes, very reminiscent of Abstergo's animus' one, back at the start of all this. 

But this is not an Animus. Desmond will not be living anyone's memories but his own.

At that, he thinks he might smile, slightly - but then everything is  _gone,_ and not a moment too soon - because with them, the Temple goes, too.

* * *

 

"You brought us back to the middle east during the crusades... Desmond Miles, you fucking  _brilliant_ idiot." He hears, then a sigh, and he's being helped into a seated position. Desmond opens his eyes - and of course, it's Clay, who else knows modern American English in this time period?

"It's as far back as I know," Desmond says, and his voice sounds tired. "I don't have any concrete knowledge about the times before this."

"And the times between now and the fourteen hundreds in Italy?" Clay asks. "Luckily for you,  _I_ do." He narrows his eyes at Desmond, "I have a lot more ancestors than you, mostly because they all led terrible lives and died young." 

Desmond nods, sighs, and pulls himself to standing, brushes Clay's hand off of his shoulder. He looks around and immediately recognises where they are.

"The Alamut Temple," He says, and looks around with more focus. He can get an idea of the date if...

Yes. Six of the memory seals are gone. 

"We're somewhere between 1228 and 1247," Clay says, "Or even after. So maybe we're past the Crusades; sometime after 1291. Judging by the fact that Altair has already taken the seals."

"So we've got... a while, then?" Desmond sighs. They missed so much they could have changed - but travelling through time wasn't exactly accurate. And Desmond hadn't exactly been in control of it... partially, this was down to the two Isu. Minerva and Tinia. 

"A long while." Clay smirks, "Until the world ends."

Desmond frowns at him, and Clay laughs. "And beyond," He grins, leans forward and places his hands on Desmond's shoulders as if he can make Desmond understand by staring at him long enough. "We're  _immortal,_ Seventeen.  _We've got forever."_

Oh. Desmond swallows at the thought - the thought of  _forever_ \- and Clay's grin grows. It's a little crazed, but he doesn't look angry. 

* * *

They make it out of the temple. They're assassin's, so it's in their nature to be quiet about it - and they don't find anything good.

"Oh  _great,_ " Clay says, sarcastically, under his breath, as he pulls Desmond back behind a wall.  _"You dropped ups into the middle of the Mongol's attack on the fortress?!"_ He whispered angrily, his blue eyes hard and unwavering. 

"I didn't mean to," Desmond protests, leans out and looks at the crowd through his eagle vision - it is a bloodbath, a sea of red in more ways than one - an occasional flash of blue, then it's gone, and the red tide takes over once more. 

It's brutal. Desmond's never seen true war - just the Animus' simulation of it - and his stomach churns slightly. He's used to death, dealt enough of it himself - but this is more than that. 

"We need to get out of here," Clay says. "We need to hide," Desmond counters. "Maybe find some dead people so we can dress a little less modern - or, fururistic - and  _then_ we can run." 

Clay nods, a terse, sharp jerk of his head. His eyes, normally simply a bright ice blue, intense and piercing, gain a strange golden tint, and he looks as if he's staring off into the middle distance, distracted and unaware.

Eagle vision, Desmond knows. He's no more distracted than the people currently fighting just across from them in the open space, spilling blood and carving their path of destruction. 

"We can go in quick," Clay says. "There are some dead people on the fringes. Get them into the shadows and strip them quickly, then find one of those wagons of hay that the old-time assassin's so kindly left lying around for people to hide in." 

"Risky," Desmond says. "There's nothing saying we can't die, just that we won't die from old age."

"Or drowning," Clay says. "Or starvation, though we still do need to eat for strength. Maybe dehydration, we haven't tested that." Desmond thinks  _when did you test starvation_ but he doesn't voice it. Now isn't the time. 

"Fine," Desmond says. "Your plan. Lead the way."

Clay grins, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Gladly."

The man takes off, quick and without warning, and Desmond curses briefly under his breath before following. It's easier than he expected - Desmond supposes, though the two of them do make quite the sight in their modern attire, that in the heat of battle, you don't really notice much aside from what's trying to kill you and who you need to kill in return, so that that doesn't happen. 

They drag the two nearest bodies that look close to their stature and are their gender back, quickly, into the shadow of a building. It's afternoon - late in the day, and the high walls of the fortress and it's buildings cast wonderfully useful shadows in which they can hide, mostly thanks to the fact that the people attacking and defending the fortress aren't paying anything except each other much attention. 

Desmond has an Assassin, and he winces at how young the man looks - younger than himself, a little shorter ( so tall for his age - likely around nineteen, if Desmond is any good at telling ages, and he worked as a bartender, so yes, he is that; people use a _lot_ of fake IDs) and has longer hair. Desmond quickly closes the man's eye's and murmurs the usual, habitual  _requiescat in pace_ he'd had ingrained in his head and in himself by Ezio's memories before he then removes the man's robes and dons them quickly, over his old clothes because they can't very well leave modern jeans and hoodies in the middle of a fortress in the 1200s. 

Clay has done the same, minus the closing of the man's eyes, and he is also in assassin garb. There's a look in his eyes - far away, a little detached - that has nothing to do with Eagle vision, and Desmond grimaces as he hopes beyond all hope that the both of them are done with the Bleeding Effect for the rest of eternity. 

"Let's go," Clay says, eyes snapping back to Desmond, and darts over to a building, runs up it and launches himself backwards onto the wall of the fortress - the stone is old enough and the buildings of the time made in a way that handholds are there and easy enough to spot; Desmond figures the Assassin's did that on purpose, if it was them that built the place. He follows Clay, though he learnt from Ezio how to launch himself upwards a certain distance (which is enough here), so he doesn't bother pushing off from another building. The two of them make it to the top of the wall without much fanfare and Desmond is glad that he still, somehow, has his blade, because there's an attacker there and Desmond is dressed like the people they're attacking. He dies, quickly, the blade deep in his throat so as to stop him from shouting, and then the two of them are off again, sprinting along the walls to try and find a place where dropping down won't kill them. 

"D'you think people used ladders to break into fortresses these days?" Desmond asks Clay - there's a section of the wall that is slightly closer to the ground than the rest, if only slightly, and that will have to do, so they're making their way there. "No idea," Clay says, "I think these people broke into here with brute force, however," He adds, wryly, gesturing to the people below. "Looks like revenge more than anything else."

At that, Desmond looks down, peers closer - and yes, it looks like revenge. "Oh!" Desmond exclaims, when they come to a halt at the wall and Clay starts climbing down. Desmond drops after him, quicker on the way down than Clay, if only by a few seconds. "Darim killed Genghis Khan," He says. 

"Of course," Clay says, "Right, yeah, that would do it."

Desmond snorts then drops to the ground in a roll moments before Clay does. Neither of them pause - they start running immediately. "Where was the closest place to this?" Desmond asks. "I'm not sure," Clay says. "I had Ezio - they tried to get to Altair but he's not my ancestor. They got as far back as the early 1300s when I was sane - turns out I had one or two templar turncoats in my genetic DNA... in the sense that they fled the Templars for the assassins." 

"Oh," Desmond says. "I had actual Templars." He adds. "Haytham Kenway. The Templar Grand Master in America during the 1700s. The first, actually. Set up the foundations for the whole colonial rite - they still call it that, actually."

"Of course they do," Clay says. They're running down the hill, now - they can't risk getting a horse, unfortunately. So they're just gonna have to run until they reach civilization or at least a place where they can steal a couple of them. "But we all have Templar blood, Desmond." 

Desmond glanced at Clay, who he found to be grinning - all sharp edges. "In what way?" He asks, warily. 

"Abel didn't live long enough to have kids." Clay's grin grew wider. "So if we're descendants of Adam and Eve..."

Desmond remembers this. The sixth glyph;  _brothers._

"Cain," Desmond says. "The founder - in a sense - of the Templar Order," Clay flicks his eyes over to Desmond - under the assassin hood, Desmond can't read what they might tell him. 

"That exactly," Clay grins and comes to a stop rather abruptly. Desmond stalls too, frowns at him. 

"We've made enough distance," Clay says. "Let's just wait here a little while."

"Why?" Desmond asks.

"Well," Clay grins, folds his arms. Desmond can see the edge of the circuitry in his arms as the sleeves of the robe pull up slightly. "We need to  _plan,_ for a start."

Desmond sighs, and nods. So they do. 

* * *

They have maybe a year, more likely less, before Masyaf falls to the Mongols - after that, they're... pretty much on their own for two centuries. 

And they might - very much  _might_ \- know enough history between them, of the assassins and of the templars - enough to get by... but the geography of the era the crusades were in? Not so much. They're in Persia, that much they know. Alamut Castle is in Persia, so they are in Persia. Masyaf is in the Levant - the  _Levantine order_ of the assassins kind of gives that away. Or, really, lets them know that in the first place. 

"We could wait a year and hold up in Masyaf," Desmond says, even if it's stupid. "After everyone's dead we could... build up again. Build the order from the ground up."

"More discrete, this time?" Clay says. "Being so loud about being murderers doesn't really help us much."

"We can't afford to be well known," Desmond agrees, "Do we age, do you think?"

"Probably not," Clay says. "How old are you?" 

"Twenty-five," Desmond says. "So I'm gonna be that forever, then?"

"Lucky," Clay says, grinning. "Technically, I was thirty, give or take a few months. If you count the years I spent in that Animus waiting to save your brain from itself, that is."

"Years?" Desmond asks. "I was captured in late January of 2011," Clay shrugs. "And died in August the following year. It's close enough to years." He shrugs again. "At least I had the entertainment of you blundering your way through Altair and then Ezio's lives, getting better as you went along," He added, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

"Right," Desmond says, vaguely annoyed. "I got better." 

Clay hums in agreement, "So good you couldn't tell you from Altair from Ezio and there. My purpose." He grins after that, has a fragmented kind of expression that's hard for Desmond to read. 

It's true, though; what he's saying. 

Desmond kind of wonders what the Isu would call him; Clay. Desmond's the Cipher, to Juno. Ezio was Minerva's Prophet. What was Clay?

Desmond supposes he'll never know since he's pretty sure Clay would have mentioned it in the glyphs when he was trying to tell Desmond The Truth.  

* * *

 

The two of them, about a month or so later, stumble across the remnants of the Assassins from Alamut Castle. There's only a handful or so of them left, now - picked off one by one during the time since the battle at the fortress. 

The both of them, by now  _very_ used to life in the 1200s both through experience of their own and not - have picked enough pockets and done enough things that they're probably wanted men, but they at least have clothes more suited to the time period and less conspicuous than partial assassin garb and modern everything else - though they did pack that away in the Temple once the smoke cleared, because one day, they might need them to prove that they're not crazy. 

Or. Well. As Clay had said  _\- crazier than they actually are._ Because, well. The Bleeding Effect is not, unfortunately, a think of the past. It's not extreme - not forgetting who they are, where they are, but there are lapses. Desmond forgets and starts speaking Italian, Clay tries to ramble at him in what he thinks is polish, Desmond forgets that, though this is the 1200s and he can't die and he doesn't need to eat, technically, or sleep, technically, or breath, genuinely, he's not in the Animus. 

Of course, that particular lapse at least lets them figure out they can't die from mortal wounds, either. 

"What are we, Desmond?" Clay had asked after Desmond woke up on a rooftop to find himself in a pool of his own blood. It's red, always will be - but there's something else about it - golden flecks, something  _extra,_ it glows, almost, without giving off light - like the circuitry in his arm. In Clay's arms. 

"I don't know," He'd said. "Something more."

And that was that. 

The two of them, blended into the crowd as they were, eyed the rather oblivious assassins that were hidden from less observant eyes. Honestly, Desmond was kind of embarrassed for them, but nevermind that. Their lack of eagle vision is to be their gain. If they'd had it, Desmond doubts they would have found them so easily. 

"So what do we say, exactly?" Desmond asks. "We don't have names, here, we aren't assassins like they are - hell, our blades don't demand our fingers as a sacrifice."

"Your blade, you mean," Clay says. "I'm still using a plain old knife, over here."

"Right," Desmond says. "Sorry."

Clay doesn't respond, as he stares at the assassins and thinks things over - eyes gold-tinted with the distant haze of eagle vision. Desmond's eyes are darker. He wonders if that makes the gold more obvious. 

"We could say we're from a different branch," Clay says. "Or that we're simply affiliated and we heard about the disaster here, decided to come and see if there were any survivors."

"Maybe," Desmond says. "That could work."

It does, miraculously. Desmond knows he looks too much like Altair to be co-incidence, mostly because one of them asks if he's the man's son almost immediately. Then, when he says no, he's asked if he's the man's grandson. Clay looks rather too amused at this interrogation. "And him?" The shorter one asks, gruffly. "The Foreigner? Which branch are  _you_ affiliated with?"

Oh. Desmond glances at Clay, but he can't see his expression under the hood. Clay's skin isn't  _that_ pale - but it's the kind of colour that means  _tanned skin_ rather than a naturally darker tone. And the blue eyes and blonde hair you can vaguely see if you look close enough (assassin hoods aren't masks, after all, but they do manage to obscure enough that reading a person's expression is futile) are  _way_ too much of a giveaway. 

It's really obvious he's not from around here. 

"We're not exactly affiliated with a branch," Clay says, "More the Brotherhood in general." He seems to think, for a moment - the two assassins grow restless, but Clay nods to himself then says "إتق دم البريء - لآ شيء مطلق بل الكل ممكن إختبئ وسط الزحام - إختبئ وسط الزحام."

Not the best pronunciation - he didn't live through those memories like Desmond did. But it's close enough. 

The two assassins don't react, for a short time, aside from to turn their faces towards each other and assumedly have a conversation based entirely on facial expressions - then they turn back.

"Follow us," The taller man said, with a voice that was slightly softer and quieter than his counterpart. 

So they do. 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Esama's Assassin's Creed writings are wonderful and inspired this whole thing, so yeah. I put the inspired as Treasures and Raw Materials because though there are four chapters and it will forever be unfinished, it's really really good. This is nothing like that if somewhat similar, but it is definitely an influence. Also, Esama's works are great, and are my entire motivation for writing Assassin's creed at all in the first place (they rekindled my love for the franchise, pretty much single-handedly).  
> \-----  
> This got a bit too long, and so that's where it stops. If anyone likes it enough I might continue it in a separate fic. Also as you can tell it got away from me ¬_¬ rude. Ah well. I hope you like it! There's barely any claysmond in both of these so far and I'm so sorry for that. I'm not very good at starting relationships off, apparently. I think it'd take a while in either of the two scenarios I've put forth... but it would happen, either way. 
> 
> //


	3. Cafes, Coffees, and Contract Killing. The Usual Sunday, Y'know.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond Miles works for an organisation that uses Coffee shops as a front. A front for assassination.
> 
> He's been trained to do so since he was little - put a bit of poison in a drink here, get someone's number there and then murder them in their sleep. 
> 
> There's a blond guy that frequents the Starbuck's down the street that seems like he might be useful - if, of course, the other organisation (which, coincidentally, runs a chain of coffee shops; what is with secret organisations that kill people and caffeinated beverages and little cakes?) doesn't get him first. 
> 
> (He's cute, too, but that's only a bonus. Really, Desmond insists, it both has nothing to do with anything and hardly even registers on his radar.)
> 
> (Lucy - a woman who works at the Starbucks and one he can't quite tell if works for them or for /Them/ that also happens to be a good friend of his - calls his bluff. But then, what does she know?)
> 
> (Too much.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The assassins are a smaller coffee shop/cafe chain, and the Templars are Starbucks. Obviously. 
> 
> (lol.)

Desmond spends most of his days standing behind a counter, memorising faces and orders and checking people for small crosses, hoping that he's not mistaking simple Christians (or goths, or other people who wear them ironically, or people who believe in vampires... or literally anyone, because it's not just Christians that wear crosses) for Them. 

If he figures out a person really is one of  _Them,_ well, then his real job kicks in. 

Desmond smiles at a girl - cropped brown hair with a blonde streak, grey eyes that might be flecked with blue if he squinted slightly (but he won't, because that's not generally very attractive), a nice jawline and high cheekbones - and thinks,  _what a shame._

A pretty face like that shouldn't be wasted on a  _Templar._

(On someone within the organisation that killed his mother.)

Desmond  _introduces_ himself to the girl, who blushes faintly and smiles pretty, as she flirts right back. It's almost too easy - but then, she could always not be a Templar. 

That wouldn't explain why she glows red when he  _focuses,_ though. Maybe she's just a run of the mill serial killer. Maybe she has a personal grudge because there's a lot of time he doesn't remember from that short stint 'on the run'. 

You can't run from them. You most certainly can't run from  _Them._ So Desmond came back because at least here, there's no chance  _They'll_ try to kill him on his home turf. They're the only ones stupid enough to shop at their enemies store, after all. 

Either way, she's red in his vision. So either she's one of Them, or she needs to die anyway. Hell, she could be a rapist, he hadn't thought of that - and if that's the case, then she'd  _definitely_ need to go. 

"So,  _Hanna,"_ He says, "What brings you here today?" after their little bit of small talk - she's from out of town, like most of the Templars. Supposedly, Hanna's here to visit family - she's got a temporary job at the Starbucks, and that's all the confirmation he needs, really. You don't get a job if you're only visiting for a couple days.

(To clarify; another assassin would need more. He doesn't even need this much, really - the red of his second sight is more convincing to the higher-ups than even the best of an investigation. But Desmond needs more confirmation than that, for peace of mind.)

She smiles again, practically throws her dimples at him, and leans forward. Her top has a low neckline - because of course - and Desmond lets his eyes stray. Her smile shrinks, more of a smirk, and the dimples are gone. Hanna says something entirely unimportant because now he knows she'll accept him writing his number - the one he uses for this sort of job, for the phone they keep elsewhere in case of tracking - and he nods, and she smiles, leans back. Desmond gets Hanna her drink personally, then writes her name on the cup - underneath, he scrawls his number, fast but careful, and then hands it over. 

She smiles to him behind her cup, then nods and sashays out of the store. Rebecca, who's manning the register, snorts. 

Rebecca's their cashier. Unofficially, because the organisation can't afford to be official, she's their technician and backup support on missions and... the _other_ thing. She also does a lot of inventing in their spare time, alongside Layla Hassan, who, coincidentally, invented  _the other thing._

(Layla's a turncoat from the Templars. It's always nice when that happens, given how... uncertain a specific blonde woman's loyalties are.)

The  _Other Thing_ , the thing that Layla invented, is what Desmond spends a lot of his time using when he's not working or - well. _Working._

(Fortunately for them, even though she invented it for the Templars, back when she'd been wholly agreeing with them - and mostly unaware of their true nature - she hadn't been quite as good as she is now. Meaning, their  _Thing_ is better than  _Their_ Thing.)

"Templars," Desmond agrees. 

"Always swayed by your charms," Rebecca laughs slightly. 

"I suppose my face helps," He grins a little, eyes wandering around the crowd. They're not as big a chain as Starbucks, but they're getting there. About ninety-percent the size of Costa, now. 

(Of course, Starbucks is way, way bigger than it lets on, given the whole Templar nature of it all.)

"And there he goes..." Rebecca says, conspiratorily, as she follows someone with her eyes that's walking down the street outside.

Blonde. Blue eyes, Desmond thinks, from what he can see. Desmond hasn't found out the guy's name yet, given he seems addicted to the shit they sell at Starbucks and hasn't looked twice at this place since the day he showed up in town. 

As they've dubbed him, the 'definitely-not-a-templar Starbucks Blonde Guy', is walking down the street towards his usual haunt.  

(They had to add 'guy' to the moniker because they've already got one of those in female form. That's always been the issue with Lucy, as far as Desmond knows. He hadn't met her before he left, and she'd been planted before he got back. Desmond talks to her now, obviously - 'old friends', or so the cover says. He has to visit her at work occasionally, to prove that, and it's a little dangerous, but he doesn't mind it, because - despite the wariness - he does genuinely enjoy her company.)

(... there might be other motives, too. Motives that might also be blonde haired, motives that might have blue eyes.)

"And there he goes," Desmond echoes. Rebecca glances at him, but Desmond waits until Blonde Guy has moved out of his line of sight before he looks to her. 

"Y'know, I'm glad you came back when you did," Rebecca says. "We'd have killed the idiot otherwise."

"Hey now," Desmond says. "Liking terrible coffee does not an idiot make." 

Rebecca rolls her eyes. "Just tasteless, then." She replies.

"For all we know, he could hate it, and they really have put addictive shit in their flavoured water." Desmond points out. "True," Rebecca sighs. "If only I could get a sample..." 

"I'm not buying that shit," Desmond says. "Get Lucy to do it."

"She refuses." Rebecca looks vaguely annoyed, vaguely worried. That's kind of her whole thing, regarding Lucy. 

"Of course she does," Desmond says. "' _I can't tell you everything. It would blow my cover. I can't get a coffee or two for friends. It'd blow my cover.'"_ He half-quotes, half-mimics. 

"Yep." Rebecca sighs. "And if she can't figure out a good cover for getting her poor uni roommate some caffeine, what can she do?"

The mood sobers. They care for Lucy - of course, they do. She's one of  _theirs._ She's also a close friend. That's what matters more; that's what makes this worse. Desmond's just glad he didn't know her Before. Rebecca sometimes crashes at his or Shawn's or Layla's because of it, and the tiredness on her face when she does suggests a recent argument. One she never wins, of course. And one that always hurts. 

Another customer comes up to the counter. Desmond plasters a smile on his face, tilts his head and focuses. Bright blue - friend. Desmond nods to him, holds out his hand, and the other shakes it, nods back. Assassin, Desmond knows. He pockets the note as he asks for the man's order, treating him like an old family friend, as they're instructed to whenever someone from another branch shows up. 

The man looks to be a few years his senior, and he speaks with a Russian accent. Definitely not a local branch, then, but Desmond can't remember if they still have one in Russia. The Templars have a pretty strict hold, there. 

Regardless - it'd be rude to ask. 

The man leaves with his straight black Americano and ginger biscuits, and then Desmond taps Rebecca on the shoulder three times before moving away, into the back. Two people appear after Rebecca types something into her register - Shawn's visiting (he usually stays at the uni campus, working in the library and keeping Templar hands off the valuable and dangerous materials kept there under various forms of physical and computerised security) so he takes over Rebecca at the till, and Emily - a non-assassin that works here because they need that diversity, in case the Templars get suspicious - takes over Desmond's place at the counter. 

Rebecca follows him into the back, and then they look at the note. 

Clay Kaczmarek might be useful. Son of Harold Kaczmarek, the descendant of a few different - and notable - assassins. Now  _that's_ definitely useful; the descendent thing. 

The picture attached makes things complicated, though. Blonde. Blue-eyed; younger, but still, the spitting image of Not-A-Templar-Starbucks-Addicted-Blonde-Guy.

Rebecca shares a sigh with him, adds her own quiet "crap" to the mix. 

Yep. That about sums it up. Still - at least Desmond now knows why the guy glows  _gold_ in his other sight. 

* * *

Desmond calls in for the day - swipes his card and thereby lets the assassins know he wasn't kidnapped because Rebecca installed an optical scanner and Layla insisted on requiring a fingerprint in order to do the card swiping in the first place (and she did something else that made sure both of those things couldn't be done with dead body parts) - then gets on his motorbike and rides to Rebecca's apartment. 

It's a cosy place, if slightly unsafe - the lock isn't very good because it'd be suspicious if it was - and once Desmond's in the place, he drops onto the slightly lumpy couch with its incredibly soft throw and itchy cushions. The walls are white, recently painted; Lucy likes to redecorate fairly often - and there's a bunch of random but similar art pieces scattered over them. Desmond focuses, and with his other sight nothing glows blue or red or gold, so Lucy hasn't left any messages for him on the red paint (with something that isn't paint. The... the _sight_ only sees what _blood_ leaves). 

Good. She shouldn't be in too much danger, and neither should anyone else, then. But Lucy isn't exactly known for telling everyone everything - comes with the whole 'double agent' thing - so he always, generally, takes that with a grain of salt. 

By the time Lucy's home, Desmond is flicking through random TV channels - the girls have satellite (thanks to Rebecca's hardware and Shawn's hacking) but no Netflix or any specific other things because the Templars have other companies like Abstergo and it's stupid Pay-Per-View TV and it's annoying Eye satellites (which They don't just use for TV channels, obviously) _and_ it's annoying subsidiary, Abstergo Entertainment, that works in gaming and streaming and could very easily have gotten it's little listening devices hidden in the hardware, since it's doubtful the Templars care about a bit of corporate espionage - and Desmond's helped himself to a drink and some chips. 

"Desmond," Lucy says - a beat after she's entered the place. Surprise, obviously, slowing her reaction. "Hey." He greets. "How was your shift?" He asks.

"Dull," She admits, "Excluding Vidic's yelling about not enough people willing to use The Thing." Lucy shrugs, as she walks over to the minifridge and gets her own drink. 

That's what they call it. The Thing.  _Their_ Thing, when referring to the Templar's one. Or their  _Thing,_ when referring to their own - the emphasis is important. If they - either side - give it a name, people might get suspicious. 

Lucy wanders back over to the living space and drops onto the recliner - crappy, third-hand, but Rebecca fixed the mechanisms. Made it much smoother, actually, and added a controller - but whatever. That's unimportant information. 

"I don't have any info for you," Lucy tells him, straight down to business. He both hates and likes that about her because it makes it harder to get attached. And she's - well, she's not unattractive, and Lucy, from what Desmond knows from his own interactions with her, is a good, genuine, thoughtful, funny and hard-working individual, and he likes her enough.

And he can't, in their line of work, let that kind of emotion get any stronger. 

"You might, actually," Desmond says in response. "Know anything about the regular? Clay Kaczmarek?"

Lucy tenses, slightly, frowns at him. "What do you want with that guy?" She asks. "From what I can tell, he's civilian."

"He's got  _History,"_ Desmond says, meaningfully. "Family connections, y'know?"

"Right," Lucy nods, relaxes into her seat and drinks some of her soda. " _Right._ Okay." Lucy pauses and thinks for a moment. Desmond turns off the TV and waits. 

"He works - or worked - in Engineering or Construction." She says. "Got a degree, I think, from what I've overheard and the little bits he's told me himself in small-talk. He's at the uni right now, actually, working on his second degree - Computer Science, maybe mechanical engineering... something to do with that, I think." She pauses, frowning at her bottle. 

"So like Rebecca, Layla, even kinda like Shawn," Desmond summarises. 

"I'd actually say a combination of all three," Lucy says, considering. "He even knows a bit about history, I think - but..." Lucy sighs.

"What?" Desmond asks, suddenly suspicious. She's - well, she's still gold in his vision, because she's Important to his on-going mission of intel gathering, but that only hides whether she's red or blue. 

"I think he rooms with a Templar," She admits. Quietly, because who knows if the apartment is bugged or not. Rebecca checks every day, of course, at the start and finish, but you can never be certain. Only vaguely hopeful. "At the uni. The knowing a bit about history could be coincidental, or -"

"Or the Templar could -" Desmond continues -

"The thing," She agrees. "Vidic's pretty strict about him knowing everything, but nobody likes him really, not even Cross."

Desmond nods, thinking. "So you think-?"

"It's a possibility," She agrees. "A lot of the Templars double-cross each other. A Templar getting a civilian to help him 'with a project' he can always claim is part of his PhD or whatever-"

"It's possible," Desmond sighs, almost repeating Lucy's previous words. "Fucking hell."

"Well, you're not gonna find out much else from me," Lucy says. "I can't talk to him, I work at the counter. They'd be more than a bit suspicious."

"Right," Desmond says. She always says that, of course. 

"He frequents a few places other than the Starbucks, though." Lucy points out. "You could catch him at one of those places. There's a bar on the other side of town I'm pretty sure he's referenced by name a few times."

"Think he works there?"

"No," Lucy shakes her head, "No - his roommate does."

"Oh, right." Not all the Templars work at the coffee shop, after all. They have eyes everywhere. 

"So what do you want me to do, then?" Desmond asks. Lucy, despite her easily-compromised nature simply due to how close she works with the enemy, is still his superior. Despite what happened with Cross. 

"Maybe get a job there?" She offers. "Bars are - people talk to bartenders more than they'll talk to coffee shop staff."

"Mostly because they're more likely to be drunk," Desmond points out, but he allows that. It'd be easier to get information, that's a given. 

It's just a lot like what he did when  _away._

"You have the experience," Lucy barrels on. "It's a way to get at him that isn't too suspicious since you aren't at the uni. It's all we've got since you already spend far too much time in the Starbucks."

He's not the one that spends far too much time in enemy territory, but then, he's also not the one whose loyalties are always under suspicion. 

It's an old argument. One Desmond, like always, will leave to Rebecca. 

"Alright," He sighs and agrees. She smiles, pleased that he took her advice (or pleased that her ploy worked, or a whole manner of other issues) and nods. 

"Well then, Novice," She smirks. "Better get to it."

Desmond leaves the apartment at that.  _Novice._ He's been a part of  _the organisation_ longer than she has - but she's higher ranked than him. Since his dad runs the whole operation, it's likely due to him wanting to avoid being accused of nepotism or whatever, but it still chafes. 

His mom would have let him advance. But his mom's not here any more, and so that's a stupid and useless thought. Because Desmond can't know that, not really. 

* * *

Shawn gives him his briefing when he gets back to the store. It's about eight, and he's surprised the girl - Hanna - has already called the number, but whatever. Desmond dons his hoodie and nods, secures the blade around his wrist and hides it with the sleeve.

The  _garbage disposal_ men will remove the body later. Early morning, maybe, around five. 

(As much as the Templars have a lot of people high up, they themselves have a fair few contacts - and people - on the lower end of the ladder. It helps.)

"So I'll be your support," Shawn says, sour. "Let's get on with this, then."

Desmond nods, then mounts his bike and takes off. The earpiece blares to life, a little staticky but otherwise clear. "Loud and clear," Desmond says.

"Good." Shawn returns. 

The girl's place is on the other side of town - great, that's actually useful. He can go hide in the bar (it's the only bar here... it's a small-ish town; it's also why Lucy didn't have to tell him the name of the place) and pretend he'd been there for a while. 

Desmond dismounts and knocks on the door.

"Hi!" Hanna says. She's living in a house, and from a cursory glance, Desmond can tell that right now, she's the only one home. 

Good.

"Hi yourself," Desmond returns, smiling. Hanna steps aside and Desmond eyes the cross tattooed on her neck. 

Most of them use jewellery now. But some - like Hanna, Vidic, and a few others that he's heard of but never met or seen around - prefer a more permanent option. 

Desmond looks away before she can catch him eyeing her warily, and pretends to be admiring the house's decoration.

"It's not much," She says, self-deprecatingly. This isn't her house, though, so that's kind of rude.  

"It's a nice place," Desmond says, and that's true enough. Modern and sleek on the inside, slightly at odds with the exterior but not any more so than the other houses on the street. The kitchen's  _nice -_ there's even a small bar. 

Rich, then, but pretending not to be. Like most Templars - he might've even found a family of them, if she's not lying about who she's staying here with, which is the most likely thing, really. 

"Very nice," Desmond says, appreciatively. She blushes slightly. Hanna enters the kitchen, asks him if he wants anything. 

"Beer would be nice," He says, and she gets him one from the fridge. Or, she would, but Desmond stabs her before she even opens the door. 

Hanna's dead faster than it would take her to hit the floor. Desmond, instead, carries her through the house.

"Someone could have seen you." Shawn pipes up, annoyed.

"Nobody did," And Desmond knows this. Because they never really tend to...  also because of the fact that he just kind of _does._ Thanks to the sight.

If someone's about to do something that could end up with him in trouble, they glow red. And Desmond can't see any red. So, generally, that means no trouble. 

Desmond hides her in some bushes in the backyard. The guys should come around and do the clean-up later; fingerprints, dead body removal, blood if there's any, etc. Desmond just returns into the house, cleans his blade on some kitchen roll and leaves that where the clean-up crew should find it.

And then Desmond searches. He doesn't find much - the people who live here work for various Templar-ridden companies; the mother works for apple, the father is a manager in the entertainment division at Abstergo and their son appears to be an intern at the main telecommunications part of the company. He also finds some fairly advanced security - it's not run throughout the house; no CCTV, or anything like that - but the safe has biometrics and a whole other load of shit he can't crack with any degree of success.

"Shawn," Desmond says. "You're up."

"Finally," Shawn says. He says something else that Desmond doesn't listen to - likely something sarcastic, knowing Shawn - because Desmond spots a few things with his vision. 

Desmond pressed on the light switch - he doesn't flick the switches themselves, he presses on the whole white square. And the thing pushes in, not easily but it does, and then the bookshelf moves. 

"Of course," Shawn sighs. "Now - stop messing around for a moment, I have to concentrate on this, you know."

Desmond rolls his eyes and walks back over to the safe, and waits. After a few minutes - maybe about six - Shawn makes a self-satisfied sound. "There." He says. "Now, get on with it."

Desmond takes everything from within the safe and puts it into his bag, then slings the thing back over his shoulder and re-secures it in place. Then, Desmond turns to the hole in the wall the bookshelf revealed. 

"Are you just going to stand around all day, or are you going to be an Assassin and finish your mission?" Shawn says, annoyed and rhetorical.

"Yeah, yeah," Desmond mutters as he walks over to the hole in the wall. It's a lot of stairs down, and Desmond takes them one at a time, squinting off into the darkness.

"If you move any slower-" Shawn starts "-We'll be here all year, I know," Desmond interrupts, "But I don't have a flashlight and even if I did I wouldn't use it because  _we don't know what's down here."_ Desmond frowns then squints harder. "And I'd like to not die."

"Don't we all?" Shawn says. "Fine." Desmond hears. "But don't take all day."

* * *

Down the stairs turns out to be a basement. It looks like any old kind of basement - but the entrance was hidden on the second floor, not a door on the first, so Desmond's going to be suspicious about it all.

"Find anything?" Shawn asks, impatient. "I've got databases to build, books to protect and a partner to go out with, so please... take your time," He says, sarcastically. 

"Yeah, I will, thanks," Desmond says, ignoring the sarcasm. History, dangerous valuables, and Rebecca can wait - there's  _something_ here. There has to be. 

"I found it," Desmond says, suddenly. There are a bunch of tools all over the place - but Desmond knows what this thing is. There are one or two in the Monterrigioni base - a couple in Rome, Florence and in Constantinople - Istanbul, whatever you want to call it - And from what Desmond's heard, you  _have_ to have the sight to open them. It doesn't make much sense - but it doesn't matter. It means the Templars can't get in... and that whatever's here, it's meant for them. The Assassins. 

"I found one of those mechanisms," Desmond explains. "You know - like the ones in Florence?"

"Ah." He hears and can imagine Shawn nodding. "Yes - Ezio's recorded actions regarding the tombs - one moment - " And then Desmond can hear clicking, which means Shawn's probably looking through one of his databases for the information.

"Yes, of course," Shawn says. "The hidden blade, Desmond, use that."

Desmond does, and the wall... opens, for lack of a better term. Desmond walks through, and it closes behind him - but he's not too worried. The ones his dad had him explore when they visited the Italian branch of the Assassins always had exits. 

"I highly doubt that this is a tomb," Shawn says. "But you do never know. There have been a lot of Assassins over the years, after all, a lot of which were very important."

Desmond nods absently and looks around the hallways as he walks. This doesn't look too old, really - but as he goes on, it looks older. Concrete to brick to crumbling stone. 

The room he finds himself in has a high ceiling and a low floor - he appears to be halfway up the wall. Desmond can see a few paths for his free running - but only one gets him to the top of the room, and that will, at least, be a good vantage point.

So Desmond turns left.

Desmond jumps, grabs onto what was likely a support beam for - something, swings on it to the next one then pulls himself up, then turns and runs up the wall and launches backwards off of it and catches hold of the rough, broken stone of the wall. Desmond gets his feet into footholds, and with white knuckles, climbs up. When he gets as high as he can, Desmond glances around. On his left - more handhold and footholds, a platform of wood that should be able to hold his weight despite its age - on the other side, there's a ladder he could probably just about manage to grab ahold of, and from there, there are a few more beams and the rough stone of the far wall which he could climb up - and he could jump backwards onto a platform that he can just about see - but he might not be able to make that, the angle he's at isn't good for judging distance.

Eh. He'll be fine. 

Desmond goes right. He launches himself off the wall, turns to face the ladder and, as he predicted, just about manages to grab one of the rungs. Desmond pulls himself up and then climbs the ladder - at the top, on the platform the ladder led to, he pauses and asses the distance now he's got a better angle.

Yeah. He can jump that. 

" _Try_ not to kill yourself," Shawn says, exasperated and dry. 

"Maybe you would, but I'm good at this," Desmond says and launches himself onto the beams, jumps across each of them, then runs up the wall as far as he can before he has to grab onto the stone, which he then does. Desmond climbs up the stone - at one point, he has to launch himself upwards further than he'd like, but... in a sense, he's done this before (if experiences in The Thing's training spaces count) so he does it - and Desmond just about manages it, but it does work, and Desmond pauses, for a second, to take a breather, before he continues moving. 

Jumping onto the platform is much easier, and from there it's a few beams and running up the wall then grabbing onto the ledge and pulling himself up onto the top and then... he's done.

And so, Desmond does just that. And he's done. 

Desmond inspects the area he's found - there's a trapdoor, which he opens - and the room within is dark, but there are a few things that catch his attention with the other sight, so Desmond drops down, easily landing without harming himself, and looks around. 

"I was right about it not being a tomb," Shawn says, and the static is much more prevalent, now. Desmond hadn't noticed during the climb - but now, he winces. 

Desmond can't say what this room is, exactly.

"Get as much of this as you can," Shawn says. "Other Assassins will come for the rest later - when we know the exit, so they can enter that way."

Desmond fills his bag with a bunch of random junk - then, he inspects the golden things. Desmond shrugs, because he has no idea what they are - disc-like objects, golden even without the second sight - they seem normal enough.

And yet...

Desmond hesitates before putting them into his bag.

"Got everything I can," Desmond says.

"Good," Shawn says. "I'll collect it from your apartment later. Now - get out of there."

Desmond turns around and opens the trapdoor he'd spotted upon entering the strange room. He climbs down the ladder and finds himself in an old tunnel. Desmond walks, and it feels like at least thirty minutes before he finds the exit. 

Desmond exits the tunnel - and finds himself in a cave; A small one. He has no idea where he is.

"Ah," Shawn says. "The tracker is back online."

Desmond can't see an exit to the cave with his normal vision - but eagle vision, as the second sight is actually named, shows another push-to-open-secret-door button, so Desmond presses it. 

Some stone moves and Desmond makes his way out of the cave, into another one - but this one opens out into a forest, much like the woods on the east side of town, and Desmond kind of knows where he might be.

"North-east of town-" Shawn rattles off like he's telling someone other than Desmond where Desmond is. He probably is - Desmond's gonna have to wait here until the others arrive before he can leave, anyway, because he has to show them how to open the cave from this side. 

Desmond sighs as he leans against the stone wall of the cave and settles in for a long wait. 

* * *

 The other Assassins relieve Desmond of the things he took from the room - Layla looks very interested by the discs, and now - looking closer - Desmond can see some sort of... golden light, like circuitry, within them... but then, Layla takes them and he can't see it anymore so it's probably just a trick of the light.

Probably not, but you can always be hopeful about these things. 

Deanna - the other Assassin sent and Layla's girlfriend (also a Templar turncoat) - is removing the temporary base gear they'll need for the investigation and analysis of this place.

They've also brought Layla's current very experimental version of their  _Thing,_ the one that you can move about and the one that doesn't require your own DNA to work (their current version of The Thing, at least the one Desmond uses, doesn't have the capacity to do full memory replay, but it can build training courses from his genetic memory, which is generally useful) which is pretty advanced, from what Desmond can gather, and therefore he understands none of it.

If it works, it works. Desmond'll leave it to the geniuses. 

After that, Desmond takes off, removing his bike from the back of the girls' absolutely ridiculous and unnecessarily advanced car.

Rebecca can't help herself, sometimes. If something can be improved, she'll improve it. Layla too. So, really, it was an inevitability.

Desmond drives off, over the dirt path, road, and then onto the tarmac. It takes about fifteen minutes to get back into town, and then another five to get back to his apartment. Desmond puts his assassin gear away - the earpiece, the hidden blade - and changes his hoodie from the white and red to the black one, replaces his jeans and throws the ones he'd been wearing in the washing machine, and then leaves the apartment again after checking for any surveillance and sending an email to his team's leader (Lucy) with his 'report' on the mission. 

Desmond was never really good at the formal shit required for the true 'report', so he just tells Lucy what happened and she words it right then sends it off. It's a win-win because Lucy really likes them to be written a specific way that Desmond always gets wrong whenever he tries. 

The bar Clay is supposedly a regular at isn't too far from his apartment, but it's far enough that Desmond is pretty sure no Templars will follow him back when he leaves. Desmond knows there's an opening for a job - he's pretty sure bribes were involved, which proves the establishment isn't Templar affiliated in and of itself - so he's not worried about that.

Which means its easy, to walk on in and ask about the sign in the window, and to smile and nod and he gets asked to prove himself - which he does, flawlessly, and he's then asked drinks he knows how to make, which he admits includes one he changed up the recipe for himself - and he's asked for a referral, so he nods and gives them Bad Weather's number and knows Tony remembers he still owes Desmond a favour. Bad Weather's... not exactly in a good neighbourhood. 

When the boss comes back and says Desmond's got the job, Desmond tells him he can start any time, and the boss introduces himself as Andrew and nods, tells him "Then get to work," And leaves for his office.

Desmond nods and turns to the people standing around and sitting at the bar. 

* * *

Two days later, Desmond serves drinks to the blonde and his supposedly-a-Templar roommate. Desmond asses them with the eagle vision - and yep, red for the Templar and glowing gold for the mission. 

Well, to be fair, the blonde has been gold since Desmond first spotted him - but whatever. The reason for that  _now_ is due to the mission; if he's still gold later, Desmond'll figure that shit out on his own. 

The Templar orders Desmond's very own Shirley Templar, probably out of a sort of obligation to be as blatant as possible without being blatant at all, and Clay just asks for a beer. 

Desmond gets them their respective beverages, and pays rapt attention to their conversation - boring things about uni work and actual work and general life shit - in case they let something slip, while he busies himself with other people's orders. 

Bartending is easy enough work, at least for Desmond, and so is eavesdropping. Something about that second sight just makes it... easier, to drown out noise that isn't needed, makes voices and other important sounds louder and easier to notice. 

But neither man says anything too incriminating, aside from the Templars not-so-subtle references to his own more secret line of work, and they leave after a few hours and a few talks with the other patrons that they must know from repeated appearances here, or from the uni itself. 

At the end of his night's work, Desmond leaves and goes home. 

* * *

Desmond sees Clay at the bar a few more times over the next two weeks - he also does other things, because while this is his main mission it isn't his only mission. Desmond doesn't kill the Templar Clay rooms with, but he does kill other ones, quite a few in fact. But for every Templar they kill they find another few, and that's just how it works. The Templars might have decided sometime in the past to be more discrete, but that didn't stop them from being a much larger force than the Assassins could ever have hoped to be. 

It's a shame, really. At least the Assassin make up for their numbers by the sheer amount of prodigies and geniuses they have as members. 

Desmond quietly removes the pillow from the man's face and then goes into the bathroom. He finds the sleeping pills - this Templar appeared to have issues with that sort of thing - and then returns to the bedroom. He gets the unconscious man to swallow one too many of the things, then places the bottle back behind the mirror, and then moves the man and his bedding around so that it didn't look like he'd been suffocated and then drugged to death.

Accidental overdose. Effective cover, usually. 

Desmond kind of hates using it. 

Desmond sighs, and looks around the house for anything out of place. Desmond doesn't find anything, not like the button in the brunette-blonde's Templar abode, so he just leaves out the front and rides his bike back to the coffee shop. Desmond parks up 'round back, secures his bike, and then enters the staff-only entrance/exit to the building. Desmond, instead of going forwards and walking into the back room, turns right and presses one of the bricks in the wall. The brick pushes in, easily, and there's a sound like shifting brick and smooth mechanisms, and the wall has moved to reveal a staircase down. 

Desmond walks down into the Assassin base, and nods at Rebecca, who is working on her Baby; a combination of her Thing and Layla's  _Thing,_ along with some of the breakthroughs the Templars made that Lucy managed to get a hold of copies of for them. She'd given them about a quarter of the break-throughs, only half of which were useful, but at least it was... something.

"Adjustments are almost done, Des, you can go in then," She said, nodding to him in greeting. "We'll need more of your DNA this time, though, the last bit wasn't enough."

"Aye-aye," Desmond said. 

Rebecca briefly smiled at him, before she returned to staring at her work, focused. It took another two minutes of standing around, then Rebecca stood and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. There was no AC in here, unfortunately, and Desmond could tell Rebecca had been down here for at least five hours. Baby tended to overheat while she was working on it, too, which didn't help. 

"All done," She said, and then opened the 'first aid' box and removed a needle. "Sit down," the mechanic gestured, and Desmond hesitated only a brief second before he did. Lucy had helped design the shape and seat of Baby, so it was far more comfortable than Layla's slab, but it wasn't  _that_ great for more than a couple hours. You definitely needed to take a break after three, but you should use it for more than that amount of time in a single day, anyway. 

Deanna really went off on one when  _The Mentor_ suggested such long breaks weren't necessary. 

(Desmond's dad is an asshole, but that's nothing new.)

Desmond still winces when Rebecca takes blood because maybe he's all fine with the killing and the violence and the injuries he gets from fighting, but this sort of thing always stings in a way he should expect but never does. 

Rebecca does her thing with the interface and the blood, then she hands him the visor and Desmond puts it on, lies down, and then Rebecca straps it all in, plugs the visor into the machine. 

"You ready?" She asks like she always does. Desmond's hands flex on the armrests, and he attempts, like always, to relax his body.

"Yeah," Desmond says. "Drop me in."

There's a sting in his arm, along with a slight burn, and when Desmond next gains awareness, he's in the loading screen. Desmond feels a phantom twinge where the needle should be, in the bicep of his right arm, but it fades. That's normal.

Desmond starts off in a light jog, then starts running full pelt. It's weird, in here; he never seems to run out of breath. And when he's back in the real world, those limitations always surprise him again, even though he knows to expect them. Regardless - ever since using Baby, he's gotten better at a lot of things, like running and climbing and fighting and - assassin stuff. His eagle vision activated, for lack of a better term, after the first time he'd used the machine and he'd known, just  _known,_ that the guy sitting three seats down  _wanted him dead._

"We're gonna use some of Edward's knowledge for this training," Rebecca says. "The ancestors we've used so far apparently had never heard of tree-climbing in their lives."

"Alright then," Desmond says. "Where to?"

"We'll use one of the islands," Rebecca decides. "This ancestor lived in the Carribean for a little while, so we'll go with that."

"Nice," Desmond says. "What time period?"

"Golden age of piracy," Rebecca tells him, promptly. "He's a pretty cool guy, actually. From what Shawn's written in the database."

"Alright then," Desmond nods. Around him, an island is forming - first, the land, then the sea, then the rocks, trees, general foliage - small animals, and then Baby's instructional colour-coding. 

"That body knows what to do," Rebecca reminds him. "So let it."

Climbing a tree is easier than Altair and Ezio appeared to think it was, and this he masters quicker than he did Ezio's leap-up-a-wall-and-hang-with-your-fingertips-and-brace-your-feet-on-the-flat-surface-then-pull-yourself-up-somehow technique.  

But then, Altair also couldn't swim. So, privately, he's not actually all that impressive. He's still very, very important, but there was  _a lot_ he couldn't actually do which feels, to Desmond, like utter necessities in the arsenal of an assassin. 

Desmond runs up a tree, using the knots and branches to launch himself upwards, and then he stands in the bough for a second before he runs along a branch, then uses another to swing to another which he swings from, then he runs along a different branch and jumps from that branch to the next to the next, and then he climbs to the bough, and then he pulls himself up to the next break, and then he flings himself over to another tree, catches on, and then pulls himself into the bough. 

"Good job, Desmond," Rebecca says. "Edward was also a better swimmer than the rest of your family, so we're gonna do something with that, okay?"

Desmond nods and drops down to the ground. Desmond blinks, and finds the world around him collapse and then form, from the grey and floating light and code, into some kind of... contraption.

"Diving bell," Rebecca says, "I think. Anyway, here we're gonna be building swimming technique and lung capacity - so, let's get on with it."

Desmond sighs, flexes his fingers then rolls his shoulders and nods.

"Let's get on with it," He repeats. 

* * *

Three hours after he arrived at the base, he's leaving. Desmond mounts his bike and drives, and he finds himself at the bar. Desmond shrugs then enters. Inside, it's quiet - Desmond doesn't have a shift tonight, and there's nothing in the fine print that says he can't order drinks here even though he works here, so Desmond chooses a stool, sits and waits.

"What can I get for ya, sugar?" The pink-haired lady behind the bar asks, accent faintly southern. 

"Just a beer, thanks," Desmond says. "Don't care about the brand."

"Gotcha," She nods and grabs him one. Desmond slides over the money then turns his head. As he drinks, he surveys the crowd - no red in here tonight, surprisingly. Just unimportant grey, and a few surprising shades of blue. 

And then, at the entrance - blazing gold. Desmond blinks and discretely watches as Clay moves over to some people at one of the pool tables, sees him nod and turn. Desmond moves his eyes over the dart match going on, looks at some people dancing in the small section for that sort of thing to the music on the old, crappy jukebox.

Desmond returns his gaze forward and takes a drink. He looks left with his peripheral vision, at the blonde, who's taken a stool at the bar.

Clay asks for a drink - the same beer he'd wanted whenever Desmond was working - then drinks, and doesn't make a move to leave and join those at the pool table. 

Desmond takes another drink and waits. Thinks. There are many, many ways in which he could approach this situation, and most don't... feel right.

"I'm starting to think you might be stalking me," Is not what Desmond hoped to hear. He blinks, confused, then looks over at Clay.

"Yeah, you." Clay rolls his eyes. "Look - buddy, I've seen you everywhere I've been this week. That's weird."

"It's a small town," Desmond points out. "For all I know,  _you_ could be stalking  _me."_

"Point," Clay inclines his head. "I mean, I was already here when you showed up," Desmond adds. 

Clay inclines his head again. There's a lull, while Desmond continues drinking and Clay fiddles with the bottle. 

"What's your name?" Desmond asks.

"Clay," Clay offers. "You?"

"Desmond," Desmond says and smiles slightly. "Desmond Miles."

Clay snorts and takes another drink from his beer. "Alright then, James Bond - how many jobs do you  _have?"_

Desmond blinks at him. "What?" He asks, vaguely bewildered. 

"You work here," Clay gestures to the bar. "You work at that mediocre coffee shop, I've seen you helping Shawn at the library... among a bunch of other things."

"Oh," Desmond said, "No - I, just the two jobs;  _good_ coffee, thank you very much, and bartending." Desmond shrugged, the rise and fall of one shoulder; half-hearted. It wasn't quite the truth, after all. 

"Hmm." Clay sounded unconvinced - Desmond didn't blame him, exactly. "Shawn's a colleague and a friend," Desmond admits, freely. "He works at the coffee shop, sometimes."

"Okay," Clay allows. "And the bartending?"

"Supplementary income," Desmond offers. "Coffee shop worker isn't exactly a millionaire's salary kinda job."

"Alright," Clay relaxes, slightly, accepting Desmond's explanations. "That still doesn't explain why you appear to be everywhere I am or pass by except for my own dorm... but alright."

Desmond nods. 

"How long have you been here?" He asks. Desmond shrugs. "A while," He says, evasively. "Was in New York for a year or so, a bit back, and Dakota for some of my childhood."

"Huh." Clay glances at his bottle. "South or North?"

"South," Desmond says. "Near Black Hills."

Clay's eyebrows rise, but he doesn't say anything. 

"So," Desmond says and tries for not-awkward. He probably doesn't manage it. "What do you do for a living, then?"

"I'm in uni," Clay says, "If the 'dorm' comment from earlier didn't clue you in." Clay shrugs. "Dual Degree. Bachelor of Engineering and Bachelor of Science in Construction Technology."

Desmond nods. "I also work for the family's construction company," And Desmond can tell Clay's trying his hardest not to sound bored out of his mind at the prospect.

"Not something you wanna do?" Desmond asks. 

Clay shrugs. "It's what I'm doing," He says, in lieu of a proper answer.

Desmond finishes his drink, and orders another. "I get ya," he says. 

Because in a way - being an Assassin wasn't... well. He'd been in New York for a reason, after all, and it wasn't that he didn't believe in the Templars. Kind of hard not to, when Shawn's waving the proof in your face in his snarky British way. 

("English," Shawn had said. "I am  _English._ Do you think the Scottish, Welsh, Northern and Southern Irish are all the same people?" He'd asked, with the tone of someone who  _really hoped_ you'd say  _exactly_ what he wanted to hear. 

"You call me American," Desmond had responded, reasonably. "Actually, I call you a Yank half the time," Shawn had retorted. "At least Britan has the decency to be different countries to go along with the different cultures and languages and accents and laws and school systems. North America's a _mess._ "

"Hey now," Desmond had said. "And your _great nation_ isn't?" Rebecca had said, amused.

"I will hear no disparaging remarks about England," Shawn had said. "However, Great Britan and Ireland are a free-for-all."

"Don't you mean the UK?" Lucy had asked, innocently. Not so innocently, really. "Then the UK and Southern Island," Shawn had said, irritable.

"Ireland's not part of Ireland?" Layla had asked. Shawn had given her the most exasperated look he could manage. "Do you not know even _recent_ history?" He'd asked.

"I know a fair bit," She'd said, annoyed. "I just... didn't pay much attention to Britan."

"And we're back to the original issue," Shawn had sighed. And that had been that conversation.)

* * *

Desmond finds himself bumping into Clay (figuratively, of course) more often after that. It really is a small town, and now they actually kind of know each other, when they see the other it's not so weird to say hi, maybe chat for a few minutes. 

Desmond now knows Clay's a little suspicious of his roommate - not in the 'I think he's evil' way, which would have been nice, but the 'I think he's probably crazy and hiding something' way, which is... still pretty good, honestly. It's still a good thing, is all Desmond's saying, that Clay's not one-hundred percent on board with whatever the Templar - Mark Doyle - is trying to subliminally sell him.

Clay laughs, and Desmond grins, a little, pleased. 

He's also found that Clay's just - kinda nice to be around. In general. 

* * *

 At some point - Desmond wasn't sure when - Clay became another name in his phone's contact list and another person who knows where Desmond lives. It's been a few weeks, yet again - and Desmond thinks he's making good progress. 

Layla also thinks she's making good progress. 

Case in point:

Desmond is retrieving a beer from his fridge when there's a knock on his door. Clay, who had decided he might as well be productive while he's here, is working on something on his laptop. He glances at the door, probably because the pattern of Layla's knock is attempting to re-create the star-wars theme. 

Desmond opens his beer as he walks over to the door, then unlocks it and stands aside, gesturing for Layla to enter with the hand holding the bottle opener. 

"Clay, Layla," Desmond says. "Layla, Clay."

"Oh so  _you're_ Clay," Layla says, and - great. Make it sound like he talks about him, why don't you. "I was wondering why Rebecca and everyone stopped mentioning Blonde-Starbucks-Guy-Who-Obviously-Has-Poor-Taste at work and started talking about a Clay instead, in what are  _generally_ more positive tones of voice."

Layla drops onto his recliner, a normal one unlike Rebecca and Lucy's, and starts flicking through the TV channels he gets on their stolen satellite. 

Well. At least it's better than making him sound like - _eh_ \- like he has a crush or something. Desmond's worked with covers like that before, of course, but they're always annoying. 

"Why did you nickname me?" Clay asks, reasonably. "Because you walk by our perfectly good coffee shop every morning ever since your arrival and have never looked inside even once," Layla replies. "Which - rude, by the way."

"Yeah," Desmond says, and Clay moves his legs so Desmond can drop onto the couch. "You've never even tried the coffee."

"It's cheaper and better than Starbucks will ever be," Layla says, then snorts. "Though it's not hard to top flavoured water."

"Isn't that what coffee is?" Clay asks, bored sounding, as he taps away at his keyboard. 

Layla blinks rapidly at him. 

"Not at all," Desmond says because he thinks Clay just crashed Layla's operating system. "There's a  _lot_ that goes into a good coffee, just as there's a lot that goes into a good martini."

"Says the bartender," Clay says. "You just want your craft to-"

"I'd stop that thought," Layla says, interrupting. "Or Desmond's gonna force you to try bartending yourself. Trust me, after that, you'll worship the ground he walks on."

It's an exaggeration, but still, Desmond's flattered. 

"Okay," Clay says. "I'll take your word for it.

Layla glances at Desmond. She's brought a bag with her, and Desmond figures whatever she's been doing in the hidden place he found with the discs and shit is in that bag. Well, they can't exactly kick Clay out - and Layla knows that, so they're just gonna have to wait to talk. 

* * *

Clay leaves around eleven, and Layla starts putting everything on display on the coffee table as Desmond locks the door behind the retreating back of the blonde man.

"Alright, so, you know the discs?" Layla doesn't ask, as she barrels right on, "They - well, from what I can tell, they do  _something._ But to do that something, they need to... interface with the right genetic makeup. The right DNA."

"So what?" Desmond asks. "You need me to bleed on them?"

"No," Layla rolls her eyes. "I need you to hold one, and then try and use it."

"Which one?" He asks. 

"Any," She shrugs. "They all point to the same thing, or close enough from what we can tell, so if one works for you the rest will. Probably. If not, we're gonna be on a chase for the right person."

"Okay," Desmond says. "Think it'll hurt?" He asks.

Layla shrugs then smirks. "Won't know until you try - I mean, it might," she says. "But Dea doubts it," Layla added. "So... like I said; who knows?"

Desmond shrugged and nodded, leaned over and picked up one of the discs. It was kind of like a DVD or a doughnut; a circle with a hole in the centre. A ring, the solid part larger than the cut-out circle. 

When he touched the disc, the lines in it's surface bled gold - it seemed to have some sort of glow, but - internal; the light didn't emanate from the object, but it still possessed that unearthly glow. Like alien tech, or something magical.

"Looks like the tech the animus is based on," Layla says. That's what she calls The Thing, regardless of which side she's talking about's thing.  _The Animus._

"Does it?" He asks.

"Yeah," She says. "There were these cubes - blue, glowing. Strange. And this temple - the walls were black stone, but too smooth. And there was that golden circuitry everywhere... but everything was dormant. There was a pedestal for something that wasn't there any more, and - somehow - nature had attempted to take over." She shook her head. "I don't know. But it looks like that kind of tech."

Desmond nods absently and flips the disc, asses the other side. It's the exact same as the previous side had been - and all the discs are identical to each other too, Desmond can see. 

"Alright," Layla says. "You've had a good look. Now... do something," She gestures vaguely. "Activate it."

"This is a terrible idea," Desmond says. "It's such a fucking terrible idea."

"I know," Layla says, "But fuck it, right?"

"Fuck it," Desmond agrees, and tightens his grip on the disc - and  _focuses._

* * *

 

_the feel of the air on his skin; the sea's breeze, the sound of his crew and their sea shanties - the slice of air as his blade passes through, the blood that pools in bright red on skin and clothes and the ground he travels over - the recoil of a pistol or two he's far too used to by now -_

* * *

Desmond wakes up on a slab he's seen before and can recognise immediately, despite never having used it himself. Desmond's thoughts take a minute to catch up to him, and then he sits up.

"You're not dead then," Layla says, and Desmond can see her relief. "Good."

"What was that?" He asks, then frowns as he clears his throat. The lack of a Welsh accent is sudden and jarring when it shouldn't be.

"You fainted and I stuck you in the animus," Layla tells him. "What happened on your end?"

"I saw..." Desmond frowns. "I think I saw some - I dunno. Fragments of my ancestor's memories?"

"Which one?" Layla asks, with interest, as she leans forward. "Ezio? One of the Kenways?  _Altair?_ "

"Edward Kenway, I think," Desmond says. 

Layla leans back and nods. "We should tell the others," She says.

"Right," Desmond agrees. 

* * *

They do, and Desmond is banned from Animus usage. 

"You remember what Cross is like, right?" Shawn asks. "I'd rather Desmond not try to kill me because he thinks I'm not myself, thank you."

There's a general sense of agreement throughout the base - and so Desmond is relegated to no Animus usage at all, and he's vaguely surprised when he's not indifferent to that news. 

Well. Anyway. Desmond leaves the base and goes up to the shop, takes over from Emily and stands behind the counter - she takes the place of the cashier, who hangs up their figurative apron for the day and wanders off, likely going to go kill a Templar or some time. Maybe they'll watch TV.

Desmond fills his day with coffee orders and generally pleasant customers, and then near the end of the shop's open hours, Clay doesn't walk past on his way to Starbucks; he glances inside, and when Desmond makes eye-contact, he hesitates before setting his shoulders and walking inside. 

"See," Desmond says, as Clay approaches. "That wasn't so hard."

Clay scoffs and looks around. "I'll just have an Americano, milk with no sugar, please," Clay asks, picking up a cookie packet and inspecting it before putting it back.

"Right up," Desmond says and sets about making it. He does, then gives it to Clay, and then makes his own drink and follows the man to a free table. At this time of night, most tables are free. Clay chooses a booth near the back - you can see out of the store, and there aren't any entrances here, just the hallway to the toilets on the opposite side of the room. 

Desmond sits across from Clay, who appears to be waiting for his coffee to cool, slightly, before drinking it. Desmond does the same and attempts to think of a way to start a conversation. 

"How's the third job going?" Clay asks. "Y'know, the one where you kill people."

If Desmond had been drinking, this would have been the part where he spat it out. Desmond's rather glad that isn't the case. 

"Um," Desmond says. " _What?"_

"I'm not an idiot," Clay says. "Also Mark  _is_ an idiot. He's been having me relive memories, but he hasn't got a way to monitor what's going on. So he doesn't know I'm reliving Assassin memories and not Templar ones; the guy's ridiculously easy to lie to."

"Oh," Desmond says. "Uhm."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck  _fuck._

"So..." Clay spreads his hands out. "I know. You're not really all that discrete about it."

* * *

Desmond should have had Clay follow him into the base, he should have had Clay join up with the Assassins entirely because he knows too much - there's a lot he should have done.

He should not have practically dragged Clay as far away from the coffee shop and the Starbucks as he possibly could, he should not have had Clay ride with him on Desmond's motorbike, and he should not have taken Clay out to one of the old bases in the woods that they don't use much any more because there aren't enough reasons to. 

So, you know... that's exactly what he does. 

Clay's obviously never ridden on a motorbike before, either as a passenger or as the driver. When they turn corners his grip tightens uncomfortably, and he doesn't know how to lean or anything. But it's as much an adrenaline rush as flinging yourself off of rooftops like the assassins of old used to be able to do (since back then, wagons of hay were plentiful) and from what Desmond was told, Clay knows that feeling well - it doesn't take too long for him to stop being worried about going splat on the sidewalk when Desmond takes a sharper turn than he should. 

Then, they're on dirt paths, and Desmond speeds up a little, and Clay holds on a little tighter, practically plastered against Desmond's back.

When they slow down and pull up at the base-house, Clay slows down his breathing before he pulls back and removes his forehead from Desmond's shoulder.

"We needed to talk," Desmond says, "And here's less out in the open than a coffee shop right next to enemy territory."

Clay nods, and dismounts. Desmond follows suit, then leads the way into the cabin. It's cosy - Assassins apparently prefer cosy to any other style of interior decorating, aside from sparse and industrial, or traditional Italian like in Monteriggioni - and the AC is on full-blast, so there's a slight chill in the air. It gets really, really hot out here otherwise, Desmond's aware, so he leaves it be. 

"How come you didn't just take me to your base?" Clay asks. This place is very obviously not their normal base, Desmond knows; there's dust on the countertops. 

"I don't know," Desmond says, plainly. Lucy'd like another team member, Shawn would be as sarcastic as always, Rebecca would like another genius and Desmond -

Desmond. Isn't sure. 

(Desmond works for an organisation that uses Coffee shops as a front. He's been trained to do so since he was little - put a bit of poison in a drink here, get someone's number there and then murder them in their sleep. And... Desmond _isn't sure_ \- because that's not exactly a life he'd wish on anyone.

Then there's the fact that Desmond - he likes Clay. He's funny, and he's smart, and he's got a strange taste in music and he wishes he could be studying something else and.

And he's cute, too, but that's only a bonus. (Really, Desmond insists, it both has nothing to do with anything and hardly even registers on his radar. Much.

(Lucy called his bluff, the one time he'd visited her at work after he'd gotten to know Clay, and Clay happened to be sitting at a table and had waved in greeting. But then, what does she know?

(Well. Given that she's a spy that might be working both sides... a little too much.))

Regardless - it... doesn't help.)

Desmond clears his throat and looks away. "Do you want a drink?" He asks, a complete non-sequitur. 

Clay blinks. Then: "Sure," He says. 

Desmond nods. There's water here, and that's it, so that's what Desmond gets them both. He sits on the left-hand couch, and he's not really surprised when Clay follows suit, instead of sitting on the armchair or the couch opposite. 

Clay takes a sip of his water, and Desmond avoids looking at him as he tries to think of a good explanation.

"When I was younger, my dad gave me this," Desmond says, tapping his scar in gesture. "I would'a ran away then, but we lived in the middle of nowhere and I was like, thirteen." Desmond paused. "I did run away, eventually. I was seventeen - I ran and lived in New-York for about a year."

Desmond paused. "It was a close call with some Templars that made me come here. I knew - I knew there was a cell here. At the time, I thought my mom ran it." 

Desmond paused. "She's dead. The Templars here - the machine you were using? It, uh - It isn't...  _healthy._ Not the version the Templars have."

Desmond paused, took another drink. From the corner of his eye, he could see Clay listening attentively. 

"She went insane," Desmond admits. "They killed her before she could kill any more than she already had."

Desmond shook his head. "Some civilians got caught in the crossfire. She - she was the one that killed them, so... the world only knows her as a criminal."

Desmond shrugged, listless. "When I showed up here, Lucy - the one in charge of the whole operation in these parts - she was already a plant. She's our double agent, our spy in the Templar Order."

Desmond took another drink, along with a general moment's pause.

"We don't know if she's on our side any more," He admits, this truth a little harder because... well, because he  _knows_ Lucy. She's a good friend. And his mother - 

_("You should have blocked it," She chided, cooly, as she stitched up the gash that spanned across his lips. "I come back home to this, and now all I'm going to hear from the other trainers -"_

_Desmond stopped listening._

_"Listen to me," She said, slightly louder but not a yell. Her tone was cooler, frosty. " **Do not** disappoint me or your father again, understood? You are better than this. All of your ancestors -"_

_Desmond really did stop listening, then, and only returned his attention when she pulled the thread a little too tight._

_"Next time," She said, "You'll have done your first-aid training. I expect you to be able to do this yourself.")_

Desmond pushed the memory away, but he couldn't stop the reflexive grimace. 

It's easy enough to say he cares far more for Lucy than he ever did his mom. 

"It's not an easy life," Desmond says. 

Clay scoffs. "Yeah, the brainwashed assassin Templar plant from 1939 would agree." He says, slightly bitter.

"What?" Desmond asks.

"Like Daniel Cross," Clay says, "But reversed. He ended up staying as an Assassin more to spite the Templars than anything else. Once the last Templar that hurt him personally was dealt with he very nearly - well." Clay shrugged and didn't continue. 

So. Clay knows about Cross then. Huh.

"Mark's pretty quick to talk when he's under the influence," Clay explains, likely prompted by Desmond's expression.

Desmond nods, and that's that part of the conversation over with. 

"How long have you known?" Desmond asks.

"About Assassins?" Clay returns, "A while. About you? Only a few weeks."

Desmond nods. He doesn't ask what clued Clay in - Desmond knows the signs are obvious as hell if you know what you're looking for, and Clay certainly would, given the memories he's lived through. And the fact that he's a fucking genius helps, too.

"So you don't know who works with me?" Desmond asks. 

"I think maybe Shawn, and then by extension his girlfriend," Clay offers, "And that Lucy chick you talk to and literally just said is a spy. But... that's all I can think of."

"They're the important ones," Desmond admits. "But Layla's one too - the girl that came over and called you the really long nickname?"

"Oh," Clay nods, "Right - okay, so her girlfriend is one too, then?"

"Yeah," Desmond nods. "Both of them are ex-templars."

"How many questionably loyal people work for the assassins?" Clay asks with a raised eyebrow. It might be a joke, but Desmond takes the question seriously.

Layla and Deanna are turncoats, but they hate the Templars now. Lucy's in a situation that automatically makes her loyalties suspicious - Desmond can hope, but he can't be sure. Rebecca's been in this for a good while, and she's the one that convinced Shawn that joining up with the Assassins was a better idea than being dead for being a whistleblower on the Templar's secrets (that conspiracy theory didn't get much traction thanks to the Templars, but it got further than it's kind usually did because, admittedly, Shawn is really good at that kinda thing) so he's loyal because if he wasn't with them, he'd be dead.

"Not many," Desmond says. "There's just a fair few that have switched sides for their own reasons - most of them good." He sighs. "Some not," Desmond allows. 

And then there were the Crosses of the world. 

"I just wanted you to know that I know," Clay says. "I'm not yet interested in joining up... but I would like to stay somewhere other than with a Templar," He admits. 

"This place is free," Desmond says. "It's not even that far from town."

Clay nods. "I'll drive you to your uni if you want," Desmond offers. 

"Alright," Clay says. "So long as the Templars won't get suspicious - sounds good."

Desmond smiles. 

* * *

That kind of becomes routine. Desmond gets up, gets ready, drives out to the woods and takes Clay to his uni, and then goes to work. He picks Clay up and depending, he either takes him back to the cabin, to the bar, or to the shops. It kind of works, kind of doesn't, but they don't mind it too much.

Desmond doesn't mind it. 

Clay's gotten more comfortable when it comes to motorcycles, now. His hands don't cling too tight or dig short nails into Desmond's skin, hoodie, or jacket - he just holds on, waist or hips or whatever, and leans on Desmond's shoulder.

Clay gets off of the back, and Desmond dismounts as well. 

The bar's open, just. It's dark (nearly light) out, and the place is nearly empty.

Desmond moves behind the bar and takes over from the previous bartender who nods to him then leaves, quickly. Desmond gets Clay his beer and - since it's so empty - makes himself a drink and pays for it. 

A lot of nights go like this, too.

What a lot of nights don't do, is end the way Desmond might actually want them to. 

* * *

Desmond doesn't plan it. 

"I was thinking-" Clay starts "- that it might be about time I join up with you lot. Given what I know, and everything... being so close to Templars without being able to do anything about that is-" He shrugged. "So... I wanna join up. Be an Assassin."

Desmond isn't exactly surprised by the sheer  _blind panic_ he feels at the thought, but it does blindside him enough that he can't hide how terrible an idea he thinks that is. 

Desmond didn't choose this life, exactly, but he chose to return to it. It's hypocritical, he knows, to say it's too dangerous and that Clay shouldn't, and then turn around and murder someone in their bedroom while they're sleeping - 

But it is. Dangerous. And Desmond -

Too many assassins die. Desmond can remember his mother's grave, from the one time he visited. Desmond missed the funeral.

Desmond can almost picture it now -  _Clay Kaczmarek. 19-_

 **No.** No, Desmond isn't following that train of thought. 

Desmond swallows - gulps, really. He's so resolutely not thinking about it that it's the loudest thought in his head.

_Assassins die. It's what we do._

None of Desmond's ancestors died peacefully. That, Desmond  _knows,_ deep in his  _genetic code,_ is  ** _true._**

"I-" Desmond starts.

Clay's shoulders are set. His blue eyes hard and expression unyielding. 

Desmond doesn't plan it - but he kisses Clay anyway. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE THIS UNIVERSE OK I don't know how long I've had this in my head but it's a universe I love and if u wanna mess around with it please do my coffee shop children require all the love thank  
> ~~~~~~  
> This is the one I'm most likely going to continue if I ever do - but even if this is a little bit of an evil cliffhanger, it actually ends in ClayDes, which the rest of these fics! have!! not!!! so I'm getting there ok.  
> The point of this is to show universes where they end up together at some point, which does give me leeway in whether I show the start of the relationship or not or just jump right into it (though that's more likely to be ANGST and I'd rather not have that in this fic except for the one where they don't end up together).  
> ~~~~~  
> come yell at my tumblr @cescalr ; give me prompts, give me feels, talk to me or at me I don't mind friendo do what you want. I'm always up for fandom talk, and I'm always up for just a random chat. :) {Prompts help me write tho. Just sayin.}


	4. They Grey (Is Not The End Of Things.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when Desmond dies to the Eye, he's not exactly - well.
> 
> Desmond doesn't actually die to the Eye. He's just... moved elsewhere.  
> \-----  
> Thanks to a readily available interview, we know now that it is canon that Desmond and Clay didn't die fully; that they're in the grey. So... that's something, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy!

Desmond feels bright, searing pain.

The eye burns, it burns, it burns and burns and burns and the sound of  _her_ screeching in his  **brain** is more than he can handle because it's more than he  _is,_ but there's nothing he can do about it he can't faint can't block his hearing because he's not hearing it exactly he's  **feeling** it and here it is, here she is, and now she's gone and the screeching, joyous almost, triumphant sound is gone too but Desmond still can't think and he can't move and his hand is stuck and it burns, oh god does it  ** _burn -_**

* * *

Desmond wakes up in a place that's eerily familiar. 

He looks around the grey nothingness, the airy, light, empty space that just appears to exist, no edges or boundaries, the space that goes on so far into the distance that he gets some semblance of a headache if he stares for too long.

He's here. There. Somewhere. That's Desmond's first thought. And then:

_If I'm here, then I'm not there._

So maybe he is dead. And maybe this is  _it,_ for him. Limbo, from now until forever more. 

(It sounds awful.) 

So Desmond looks around. After a few moments, he realises he can move - so he does. Steps forward, and there's sound, of a sort. Echoey, strange, not-quite-right sound, like the simulated approximation of footsteps one might expect from the -

Oh. That's what it looks like.

Later forms of the Animus looked less and less like this, in the loading stages. But this surely does remind Desmond of the first animus he used, of the endless white-grey in reality and the virtual world he'd experienced as a prisoner in Abstergo. 

Maybe this isn't limbo. 

Desmond looks around, at the vast emptiness, at the constant reminders of one of the worst times in his - admittedly rather short - life. 

(Maybe it's some form of hell.)

* * *

Desmond gets bored of standing around - it was going to happen  _eventually,_ so it might as well be now - and starts walking. He walks, and walks, and walks.

And walks. Eventually, still bored; the scenery has stayed exactly the same and now it's even more monotonous than just sitting still - Desmond starts  _jogging._

Oh, the memories that brings. 

(It's still incredibly dull, of course. But now it's incredibly dull and causing him to think of Lucy, so. Maybe this really is hell.)

Desmond continues on this straight line, continues jogging. He could change direction, but nothing changes when he turns. The world around him looks the same, acts the same, reacts the same to his movement. It's disconcerting, decidedly, so Desmond doesn't even bother trying.

He just jogs.

And jogs.

And jogs.

And jogs some more. 

* * *

Desmond remembers randomly punching the air and otherwise practising his fighting in the loading screens, but he doesn't do that here.

There's no point, really. This isn't a loading screen - this is it. This is fully loaded, this is all he's going to ever see. 

Forever.

And ever.

And ever.

And ever.

(Until the end. Because there has to be one. There has to. This can't just be  ** _it._** For all eternity.)

(Maybe it is limbo. Maybe his choices throughout life meant they really had no fucking clue where to send him. After it.)

* * *

It's easy, here, to just... not think. Desmond finds this happening a lot, just.. vast stretches of 'time' where he just jogs. Desmond hasn't gotten tired once, hasn't faltered in his pace. 

Desmond wonders if he ever will. Honestly, he also thinks that's rather unlikely. 

That's not the nicest thought. Desmond stops thinking about that, and in turn, stops thinking about anything at all. 

* * *

Sometimes Desmond thinks he can see people. Or, things that look like people. Always in his peripheral vision, always gone after mere moments, but sometimes he thinks he can see them all the same. 

Sometimes their silhouettes remind him of people he sort-of once knew. Ezio, Claudia, Connor, Haytham, Clay, all the rest. Sometimes they remind him of people he really did once know - his mom, his dad, Lucy, Rebecca, Shawn. 

They're always gone before he can turn his head to look. Hell, they're gone before he can even _think_ to turn his head to look. 

Maybe it's some weird form of the bleeding effect. Or his mind playing tricks on him, or this place fucking with his brain. 

* * *

Eventually, this place's tendency to lull you into a sense of contentment with sheer boredom and monotonous actions stops working. 

Desmond slows down his jog and stops, looks around. 

Desmond's had a lot of time to think, you see. So. If he freed Juno - maybe it wasn't just... a gate that was opened. Maybe...

Maybe he's where she was. It's just a thought. But maybe it was a  _trade._

Desmond stands still, for a few beats - and as expected, the silhouette ghosts make their appearance. Desmond doesn't move, not a single twitch - because this place lulls you into that, too; complete stillness - and the people... solidify, for lack of a better term. Some disappear, like smoke in the wind, but others...

They stay. 

Desmond closes his eyes.

(See, if he's here - stuck in this place reminiscent of the animus's base self -  - maybe he's not the only one. Because he wasn't the only person to die by first civilization tech... not by a long shot.

But if that's not the case - he doesn't - he can't chance the disappointment.)

(He can't chance Lucy. He doesn't even know if he wants to, to be truthful. In a sense, he'd made his peace with what happened, even if it still hurts. If he sees her - if he can bring her here - he doesn't even know if it would be  _her,_ or if it'd just be a construct. Something close but not the same as who she was, once. And even then... she'd still be a traitor, wouldn't she?

And Desmond... he doesn't - he  _can't._ Her memory is already tarnished  **enough.** )

(But Desmond...  _if_ a construct is all he'd get - at least, in one case, he'd know what he'd be getting.)

Desmond opens his eyes. 

"It's funny," He hears. "Most people don't get a second chance. Let alone a third."

"It's funny," Desmond repeats, "But I never thought you got that second chance in the first place."

* * *

Desmond's sitting on the even faker beach than he remembers, staring out at the vast, flat, grey-blue nothingness. 

"Be honest with me," He hears. "Why not Lucy?"

"I didn't know... I couldn't be sure what..."

"You'd get?" He finishes. Desmond looks back at him. "Yeah."

"Understandable," Clay says, but there's a harsh sort of look in his eyes. "You knew her as  _her,_ with all those complex human attributes. All you knew Clay as..." He holds his arms out, as some sort of all-encompassing gesture, "... Is this."

Clay glitches, and then he's standing slightly off to the side of where Desmond is sat. 

"It's funny," Clay says, "That you'd apparently rather a construct to someone real."

"It's funny," Desmond repeats, "But you seem pretty real to me. AI or not; who cares?" Desmond looks back out at the vast nothingness. "We're both dead."

"Oh, I'm dead," Clay agrees. "But you?" 

Desmond looks back at him. "Your body down there seems to be doing just fine. You're just not in it."

Clay moves, sits down on the sand nearby.

"There's not exactly a way for me to go  _back,_ " Desmond says. "I'm dead in all the ways that matter."

" _Braindead,_ maybe," Clay says. "Didn't you pay attention to my glyphs, or?..."

Desmond frowns at him. 

"The shroud, seventeen." Clay rests his arms on his knees and looks up into the grey above. "The piece of Eden that can resurrect the dead. So long as they're  _here."_

"People who used first civ tech enough," Desmond says. "They can use it?"

"And people with a high enough percentage of their DNA running through their veins, yes."

"Oh." Desmond looks back out to the still, grey-blue, vast emptiness. "I guess that makes sense."

"Well, they didn't want mere  _humans_ using their tech, did they?" Clay asks, and Desmond can hear the sharp smirk. "Should have put things in place to make sure our DNA wasn't compatible if they didn't want that to happen eventually, though."

"Right," Desmond agrees. 

"So, what are you going to do?" Clay asks. "Sitting around on this... plane of existence, that's fine. But there's more to The Grey than this."

Desmond glances at Clay.

"There's a lot more first-civ-based tech out there than when you died, Desmond Miles," Clay says. "I've been keeping an eye on it."

"How?" Desmond asks and looks at the man properly. 

"That," Clay gestures. Desmond turns his head and looks at the replica sync nexus. 

"Right," Desmond says. "So you just..."

"All First Civ tech is based on this place," Clay says, referring to The Grey. "This place is... harder to master. It's basic. Base code, if you will." Clay looks around. "I don't have enough of the right DNA. Enough to make this replica, sure, but not enough to make something closer to what it was actually like there," Clay continues, gesturing to the false island they were occupying. 

"Okay." Desmond looks back at the synch nexus. "But that's... not quite what I meant."

"You needed to know," He hears, and when he looks back he catches the tail end of the man shrugging. "All I can do in there is observe."

"Right." Desmond looks back at the nexus. "So you're saying..."

"Maybe you can do more," Clay offers. "But unlike back in the Animus, here I'm not exactly an expert. It's different in all the wrong ways - like a company that prefers nepotism over skill, in a sense. You'd do better here than I ever could."

"I'm not going to take that as an insult," Desmond says, as he stands. "So where does it lead?"

"Out," Clay says. "And up."

"Helpful," Desmond says, dryly. 

"Well, unlike when you last saw me," Clay says. "My existence isn't solely to help you keep yours."

"Alright, yeah, but you wanna get out of here, right?"

Clay glitches and moves, standing next to Desmond. "Maybe, maybe not," Clay says. "I don't have a body to get back to."

"Go with maybe," Desmond suggests. Clay hums, non-committal, and moves over to the nexus. 

"I might as well show you around," Clay decides. "If you die in there..."

"You won't have anyone to annoy?" Desmond says, dryly, as he also moves over to the synch nexus. 

"Let's go with that," Clay says. He glitches, Desmond blinks, and he's being shoved into the nexus. 

"No time like the present," Clay says, cheerfully and slightly unnervingly (but then, 'and slightly unnerving' is a given most of the time with him) 

Desmond stumbles non-too gracefully into the nexus. Clay doesn't waste time (not that there's really a concept of time to waste in the first place, but still) and follows after. 

* * *

Desmond blinks into awareness. The place around him reminds himself of the loading screen, yet again, but more akin to the one he'd had back in the actual sync nexus. 

"Welcome to an older form of the newest form of the Animus," Clay said, slightly confusingly.

"What?" Desmond asked. 

"This place," Clay gestures, "Is as you call it the 'loading screen' of Abstergo's memory delving animi." 

"Is it animi?" Desmond mused. "Animi, Animusses…"

"Since the latter sounds stupid, let's not go with that." Clay said dryly, "But that's also not important. What's important is that - well, you've been considering all these places loading screens, right?"

"Kinda," Desmond said, "Just that they look like them."

"Yeah," Clay glances around, "That's the thing. This place doesn't look like a loading screen, the loading screens look like this place." Clay pauses. "They look like this place because, for the time that you're in the loading screen, you're here."

"Oh." Desmond glanced around. "... How big is this place?"

"Endless," Clay said, shrugging. "As all 'planes' of The Grey that I've visited appear to be."

"Appear?" Desmond looked back at the blonde. Clay shrugged. "Maybe I just haven't walked far enough."

Desmond looked back out to the dark, blue-grey-green vastness, and considered that. "Maybe," He allowed, and looked around some more.

"So what we need to do," Clay started, "Is find a memory to attach ourselves too. Eventually, some modern idiot is going to play through it, be they working for Abstergo's games section very innocently, or be they actual Templars, or be they some dumbass who doesn't understand how terrible an idea it is to buy a games console from Abstergo Entertainment."

"Wait, what?" Desmond turned to face Clay. "Abstergo Entertainment?"

"They branched out," Clay told him. "And it makes sense. Releasing their propaganda as video games... not a bad idea. Make everyone think the Assassins are evil and the Templars are the 'good guys', even though it's not nearly that nicely black and white."

"And it's not that way around," Desmond added. "But they have a games console now?"

"Hmm. You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?" Clay said, rhetorical. "And, like I said, yes. They branched out."

"So they're just... letting anyone interface with an Animus now?" Desmond asked. "Despite the bleeding effect?"

"They never cared about  _that,"_ Clay said, dismissively yet somewhat forcefully. "They cared about progress. In a way that doesn't help people."

"Okay," Desmond said, "That's true." He turned back around. "So this is...?"

"The plane of The Grey reserved for the Animus Omega, yes." Clay walked over to Desmond and stood beside him. "We're a bit early, the guy I've been keeping an eye on through your ancestor Edward Kenway's memories doesn't log on for another half-hour or so."

"Can't we just... go to the point in Edward's memories where he left off, and be there when we need to?"

"You might be able to," Clay said. "To be frank, I think you should start from the beginning."

"You could just catch me up," Desmond suggested. "I mean, how much time has passed?"

"Not much at all, really," Clay said, "I think. Time moves differently here... we could be hundreds of years in the future and we wouldn't know because we're experiencing memories re-lived by people alive in the 21st century."

"Right, okay," Desmond said, disconcerted. "Well, that's fucking  _great."_

Clay shrugged. 

* * *

 Half an hour passed, and Desmond saw, in the distance, a shape that looked vaguely human. 

"Ah, there he is," Clay said. "That'd be Edward, because you show up as the person you're reliving the memories of in the loading screens one-hundred percent of the time, now. Just to make the Bleeding Effect  _more_ apparent," He said, a tinge of annoyance colouring his tone. 

"It makes the confusion less in the  _wrong_ direction," Desmond agreed, as they started walking towards the figure. 

"Edward Kenway is a blonde Welshman," Clay told him. "That assumed the identity of an Assassin after he died. He ended up acting out the role of an assassin for a while, even though he wasn't one, and eventually did become one properly. He was a pirate mostly, for a good while."

"Okay," Desmond said. "Alright, so..."

"Haytham's father," Clay continued, "He was murdered by a person he trusted who turned out to be a Templar. The guy raised Haytham and sold Edward's other kid, Haytham's sister, into slavery."

"Oh, great." Desmond said, obviously sarcastic. "There's very little happiness in my family history, isn't there?"

"Well," Clay shrugged. "Assassins and Templars don't lend themselves to long-lasting contentment."

"I guess that's true," Desmond said. "It'd be nice if it wasn't, though."

"But it is. They're dead, we're dead, and that's that." Clay said. "Well. You're only braindead."

"Thanks," Desmond said, dryly.

"Literally," Clay added, and Desmond could see him smirking. 

"Shut up," Desmond muttered.

Clay shrugged, and they continued walking towards Edward.

After a few... moments? well, however long it took, they reached the pirate, and Clay tapped the slow-moving man on the shoulder. 

"Here he is," Clay said. "The man himself. Now, we just gotta go into his head, like this."

He demonstrated that by grabbing Desmond's arm and shoving his hand through Edward's head.

"What the fuck," Desmond said, plainly. 

"Odd, isn't it?" Clay grinned. "Now, just grab the memory that's at the forefront, and we'll be on our way."

Desmond sighed, closed his hand around - well, he supposed it was the memory, and the world around disappeared. 

* * *

They found themselves on a ship, during a storm.

"From the beginning, then," Desmond heard Clay say, as loud as if they weren't on the deck of a ship during a thunderstorm, while said ship was being attacked. 

"This is the beginning?" Desmond asked, glancing around.

"Well. Not the  _beginning,_ beginning," Clay allowed. "They don't start people from the ancestor's birth anymore, seventeen."

"They didn't with Altair," Desmond said, "And they showed Connor's childhood, but not the years he was a toddler."

"So Ezio was special, then," Clay concluded. "Hmm. Anyway, that's him," Clay pointed to the blonde man at the helm of the ship, manning the wheel. 

"Sample seventeen project," Clay said, disparagingly. "The lovely Templars at Abstergo found your dead body, so they're combing through your genetic memory via samples of your DNA to see what they can find. Here, with Edward, they're looking for something called the 'observatory'."

"Huh," Desmond said. "Bastards."

"Mhmm. Your body is kept somewhere in stasis, I'm not sure where," Clay told him. "I also don't know who's behind Edward here; just some unaware Abstergo entertainment employee, I expect." He shrugged. 

"They're getting normal people in on this now?" Desmond demanded, turning to Clay.

"As far as I can tell," Clay shrugged. "I can't talk to the person piloting Edward, just watch as they go through the memories and consistently fail, then succeed, fail, then succeed."

"... Alright," Desmond said, turning back to the scene in front of them. The battle and storm waged on, and Desmond could tell Edward's ship wasn't going to make it. 

"This is about when Edward gets shipwrecked," Clay said. "He wakes on a beach near Duncan Walpole, an Assasin turned traitor, then chases him for a bit before killing him and assuming his identity. Edward lies to a lot of people for a good while, but it does catch up with him eventually."

"But he lives through it long enough to have kids and be betrayed," Desmond added.

"Yes," Clay confirmed. "He does."

"... so since we can visit his memories," Desmond said, "Edward's, that is - can we visit any memories?"

"Anyone who's DNA is inputted into the Animus, yes," Clay confirmed. "I tried it once. Found you by accident."

Desmond paused. "... Found me?" He asked.

"You rebuilt your memories in the Black Room, remember?" Clay said, bored. "Which means they're here. More solidly than even in your own head, I imagine."

"... what did you see?" Desmond asked.

"I only looked at the ones I was mentioned in, or was in," Clay said, shrugging. "Call it morbid curiosity, seventeen."

Desmond looked back over the battle. There was a projectile headed towards the ship they were standing on - he knew it was going to cause it to sink. 

"It's Desmond," Desmond said. "I call you Clay, don't I?"

* * *

 

When the cannons hit the ship, there was a bright flash, and then darkness - and then, Desmond found himself in the loading screen. again.

"We got kicked out." Clay frowned. "That hasn't happened before."

"Maybe we should try someone else," Desmond suggested. "Maybe the animus has figured out you've been watching and tried to set up defences like it tried to delete our presence when I was in that coma."

"Maybe," Clay said, dubiously. "Fine. There's a fair few more we can watch."

"Like who?" Desmond asked.

"Shay Cormac, Arno Dorian, Evie and Jacob Frye, et cetera, et cetera." Clay sat down on the 'floor' of the deep blue-grey space. "Go have a look at one of them. Maybe it's my presence that cut us off."

"I doubt it," Desmond said. "I mean, you were watching Edward's memories for ages before I showed up. Maybe it's  _me_ that made it happen."

Clay cocked his head to the side, considering. "Maybe," Clay said. 

* * *

Time's not linear, here, Desmond knew. He knew that for a fact, only partly because Clay had said so.

And maybe, by chance, Desmond had a similar kind of morbid curiosity as Clay had had - because he chose to have a look at Altair's memories. He found them, after the fifth attempt at pinpointing the man, and pinpointing a memory and time when Desmond was living through it, but he did find them. 

Desmond grabbed the memory he wanted, waited a few seconds -  _one, two, three -_ and  ** _focused._**

* * *

Desmond didn't mean to do anything when he was there. Robert De Sable was down below, as Desmond remembered. Altair was about to do the stupidest thing he'd ever done, which was saying something, and Malik was attempting to dissuade the arrogant man. 

He didn't mean to do anything. But Desmond moved, just barely, into Altair's peripheral vision - and the man's head snapped towards him, and Desmond couldn't help it.

"Don't," Desmond said. "Please don't."

Altair hesitated, and that was enough - he pulled back into the shadows, and watched, and waited. 

Desmond saw the memory desynch before his eyes, saw Altair shake his head, as if confused, and knew the other, younger, more naive Desmond was bewildered at why he'd seen himself in a memory of a man who lived a thousand years ago. 

* * *

When Desmond returned to the synch nexus, he blinked and rubbed at his temples. 

"I thought you'd be able to interact, but I didn't think you'd be able to change  _history,_ you  _braindead idiot,"_ Clay said, half annoyed, somewhat impressed, and mostly crazed. 

Desmond winced. Altair's memories had doubled up in his head - the end was the same, the goal still reached; he was still locked away in the Library at his death, he'd still messed with the apple, he'd still made the discs, he'd still had Darrim and Sef, he still married Maria - but he didn't fall out with Malik nearly as badly, he didn't kill an innocent, he didn't lose his place as master at that point (it still happened, later, like it was fixed in time that it would eventually occur), Malik didn't lose his arm. 

Kadar did not die. 

There were little changes throughout history from then on, but they faded, and as the centuries passed, history corrected its path to the one that led up to this point; to Desmond, standing here, in The Grey, with Clay half-glaring at him.

"Nothing really changed," Desmond said. 

"It should do," Clay said. "Don't you see it? If we can manipulate the fact that the people we look at aren't themselves when we're looking at them, just some random asshole who probably doesn't actually want to kill anyone, we could change  _so much_ for the  _better."_

Clay grabbed Desmond's shoulders, imploring him to see where Clay was coming from. 

"Maybe," He said, "We can make it so humanity can  _defend themselves."_

"But you saw what happened," Desmond argued. "Nothing really  _changed."_

"Because you did one thing,  _once,_ gave  _one_ warning." Clay grinned at him, unnerving, but hopeful. "What happens if we do more?"

"But if we change everything then we'd never end up here," Desmond said. "And then we'd never have changed anything."

"You don't know that," Clay said. "History corrected itself, didn't it? So maybe, it'd find a way to get us here even if none of what happened ever did."

"... Alright," Desmond said, reaching up and carefully removing Clay's hands from his shoulders. "Okay. We'll try." He promised.

* * *

"The apple isn't your friend," Desmond said. Altair turned and looked at him, confused, but his expression cleared, and Desmond knew he was talking to himself again. 

"Me," Altair-Desmond said. "Why am I... gold? And see-through?"

"I'm... projecting myself," Desmond said, "I guess. Through The Grey, and The Calculations, to speak to you. So... I mean, I guess that's why I look like an Isu right now. Because they're projecting themselves, too, except - they're millennia in the past. I'm from the future."

The Altair-Desmond seemed to struggle to speak. "Vidic got really confused by the footage when you last showed up. But that was ages ago."

"A lifetime, really," Desmond said. "You gotta remember to keep yourself clear up in there. You are Desmond. He is Altair."

"What do you mean?" Past-Desmond asked.

"Ask Lucy about the Bleeding Effect," Desmond said. "Or don't. She's a traitor. Trust her to get you out of Abstergo, but not as far as you can throw her."

"She's a traitor?" the other Desmond asked. 

This was getting confusing. Desmond dubbed the younger him Miles. 

"To you," Desmond said. "How much can Vidic understand?"

"Nothing," Miles replied. "That's why he was so confused. You... I... future-us distorts the footage. Neither he or Lucy can listen to or see any of this."

"Useful," Desmond said. "Don't tell them any of this. You can trust Rebecca and Shawn, I'd say, but they trust Lucy, so don't tell them anything you don't want her to know."

"Who?" Miles asked.

"You'll find out," Desmond said. "Mostly I just came to tell Altair that. I didn't think we could talk, I mean, last time you desynched immediately."

"Vidic got someone in to fix the animus," Miles said. "It doesn't overheat as much. Thanks for the burn scar, by the way." Miles added, dryly. 

"Oh." Desmond said. "Sorry. At least you don't have this," He gestured with his left arm. You could only sort of tell something was wrong with it from Miles' perspective, but Desmond knew it to be black, with circuitry reminiscent of the first civilization's technology running through it. 

"What happened?" Miles asked.

"Something inevitable," Desmond replied. "We died."

And with that, Miles desynched completely. 

* * *

"There's not much we can do with Altair," Clay said. "Ezio, given all the people he knew, is a much more useful person."

"We need them to find the shroud," Desmond said. "Altair can hide it in the Library. Younger me can find that out through Ezio. We can revive you, because I can influence Haytham to get the Templar order in, at the very least, the Colonial Rite to return bodies to their parents. You'll be buried, and we'll be able to find you."

"Which would require Vidic's lot to be in America." Clay pointed out. 

"Not for the entire time," Desmond said. "They move after returning your body because Vidic tires of the rules within the Colonial Rite."

"That could work," Clay said. "... Yeah. That could work. Then what? What about you? How do we end up here?"

"History will figure that out," Desmond said. "I'm in Altair's memories looking like a fucking Isu. I have to be in The Grey and therefore The Calculations to do that, and young me knows we died."

"Does he know how?"

"It'd be easiest to wait to tell him." Desmond said. "After he knows a bit more. After you try and tell him The Truth, I think."

"He does need to know of The Ones That Came Before if he's going to believe you about Minerva's Eye," Clay agreed. 

"You find that out from Juno?" Desmond asked. He hadn't told Clay about that just yet.

"No." Clay said. "I lied about only looking at the times I was there or mentioned in your memories."

Desmond glared.

"What?" Clay asked. "Sue me for wanting to know if my sacrifice was in vain. I like how all of you pretended I never existed, that was fun."

"I corrected them when they called you sixteen."

"But you never told them what it was I did, exactly." Clay said.

"They didn't wanna hear it," Desmond said. 

"And you do everything that people want, don't you?" Clay said, dryly.

"... For the most part, yeah." Desmond said, suddenly exhausted. He sat down, on the ground. Clay sighed and sat next to him. 

"What was it like, growing up in the Assasin's Brotherhood?" Clay asked.

"Like growing up in a cult," Desmond said. "That's what I thought it was, when i ran away; just another child-abusing brainwashing cult. That was the Farm's cover, actually, just a cult in the woods. Harmless. Abstergo never bothered with them, because they were off the grid, like any other technophobic cult out there. It was smart, I guess, but -"

"Hearing it often enough made you wonder." Clay concluded.

"Yeah," Desmond said. "Getting punched in the face by your own dad wasn't pretty, either."

Clay whistled, lowly. "And here I thought Bill was an asshole in the normal way."

"He's a dick in all ways," Desmond said. "Raising kids like that. But that doesn't mean he didn't care. It meant he cared too much about the wrong things."

"It blinded him to the fact he was hurting kids, that cause of his." Clay shook his head. "I heard about the Farm, of course, but because of my mission, nobody really ever told me anything. I had little contact with anyone other than Bill - I mean,  _that's_ why most people just referred to me as sixteen. They legitimately didn't know my name. Bill didn't want them to."

"Well, I told them, after it all," Desmond said. "For what it's worth."

"it's worth something." Clay said. "I just... don't know what, yet." Clay stood. "Come on. History's not gonna change itself." 

* * *

"Find the shroud. Hide it in the Library. You'll know the one when you find it. It's where you choose to die."

Altair blinks at him. He's a safe distance away from the apple; as far as Desmond knows, he's used it as much as he had done the first go-around, but he's been more careful. More cautious. He hasn't listened as much - or at all - to what the Isu want. 

"The shroud?" He asks. It's still Altair, but Desmond can see Miles trying to break through.

"The golden shroud. Do you know your mythology? Greek?"

"I can find out," Altair said. 

"Do," Desmond returned. "Find it. Keep it safe. Keep it hidden, in the Library, where you'll choose to die."

At that point, Miles broke through. 

"You usually appear when I'm not in control," Miles said.

"I want to talk to Altair," Desmond said. "You being in his head makes him more... makes it easier to convince him of what I'm asking."

"What are you asking?"

"I need him to find the shroud," Desmond said. "To save your life. And the life of a... someone who saved our life. Someone who didn't deserve the lot he got in life."

"Who?" Miles asked.

"... Clay." Desmond said. "You'll find more out if you look for 'Subject Sixteen', though."

And once again, the memory desynched. Desmond, by this point, had figured out that was actually History trying to fix itself. Trying to follow the path the Isu had moulded in the calculations. The one that Desmond had moulded, by simply  _existing._

* * *

Desmond winced and rubbed at his temples. He looked over at Clay, who raised an eyebrow at him.

"Thanks for somehow saving the life of one of my ancestors," Clay said, dryly. "Now at least there's one family member of mine that lived a long and happy life, after that bit of misery in the beginning."

"What?" Desmond frowned at Clay.

"I don't know what changed," Clay said. "It doesn't really look like much of anything did?" Clay frowned, confused, as he rubbed at his own temples. "And it's giving me a headache."

"Welcome to the club," Desmond said. Clay snorted. 

"Did it work?" Clay asked.

"I don't remember Altair finding the shroud," Desmond said, disappointed. Clay shrugged. "Try again, then."

Desmond sighed, nodded, then reached back into Altair's head. 

* * *

Fifteen more tries, in various different memories, changing things he'd already changed, altering it all just  _enough_ to get Altair where he needed to be to find everything he needed to find  _and also_ where he needed to be to find the shroud, and it finally,  _finally worked._

"History's fucked in my head," Clay said when Desmond saw him after he desynched from Altair for the last time. 

_"Cipher is what the apple calls you." Altair had said._

_"I'm Desmond," Desmond replied. "Whatever the Isu want from me, they're not gonna get it in the way they want it."_

_"From what I have seen... I feel that would be for the best." The old man sighed, as he lowered himself onto his chair. He was not to die yet - the memory Ezio had seen still needs to happen. The man was just sitting to read._

_"Yeah," Desmond said. "Trust me. I'm trying to save the earth and humanity at the same time. The Isu don't want both, they want either."_

_Altair nodded, and before Miles could desynch - and Desmond hadn't experienced Altair's memories this far into his life; what had changed there? Desmond's own memories of his own life hadn't changed yet, which was... strange - Desmond said "And young me? Use the shroud. Find Clay's body, and use the shroud."_

Of course, that - well, order, that order would only be possible if and when a) Clay's body was in a grave in America, and b) the shroud was safe. Luckily, he'd accomplished the latter - it was safe, in the Library... for now.

'For now' being until Ezio's time, in this instance. 

First off - Desmond can't let his younger self see that memory until after he's seen Ezio's. That memory requires him to know where the shroud is  _now,_ not 'now'; in Masyaf. Not now, as in Ezio's time. but  _now,_ as in Miles' time; as in, before he dies. As in, 2012. 

As in - cutting it too close for comfort, because there's no other way  _to_ cut it. 

They need the shroud before December 21st, 2012. They need Clay and Desmond to die to the Eye, because Clay and Desmond need to be in the timeless space of The Grey and able to manipulate The Calculations for any of this to have happened at all.

But they can't have them die any sooner, and they can't have them die any later. The Assassin's need the shroud to resurrect Clay and Desmond, but they can't have it to resurrect Lucy, as much as it pained Desmond to think such. 

_"You want to, I can tell." Clay said._

_"I just-"_

_"We **can't risk it,** " Clay said, firmly. "Don't you get it? She was a traitor. She was  **willing.** Lucy Stillman was far more a Templar than an Assassin, and far more of both of those than your  **friend.** **Our friend.**_ _She'd have had you dead, in the end, you know that. Just like me."_

_"We don't know that," Desmond denied, forcefully. "She just - she just thought she was doing the right thing."_

_"She didn't." Clay said. "She was an idiot, and she was scared, and she was compromised. Lucy lied about being a Templar for so long that it became the truth, and that's that."_

_"Clay-"_

_"Don't. Desmond, she'll ruin **everyting** we've tried to fix. She  **betrayed you.** Don't think about it like Assassins versus Templars, think about it - you liked her. Probably could have  **loved** her, and don't lie - she had that effect on people. You  **trusted her.**_ _And she was going to throw all that away and rat you all out to the Templars - even Rebecca, her best friend that she'd know for **years,** wasn't someone she would at least take pause about when it came to betrayal. She didn't give a  **shit,** in the end, no matter what she said, no matter what she believed. Lucy was a good enough liar to lie to herself convincingly, and she lied to everyone else, too. All Lucy wanted, in the end, was safety - if that was at the cost of other people, well, then it was worth it to her."_

_"I don't believe that."_

_"Fine. Go ahead. But if you'll do something for me, just **one something...**_

_**"Don't bring her back."** _

He didn't agree with Clay. He  _didn't._ But the man had saved Desmond's life, and Lucy had - in Clay's eyes - led to both of theirs. They were both assassins, so they were both killers - but only one of them was the type to turn traitor, and Desmond can't justify bringing Lucy back, not after everything she did and, honestly, what she  _didn't_ do. 

Because what she chose not to do was as damning as what she did. And in the end - she chose not to save Clay's life, which would have blown her cover. But Clay chose to save Desmond's, at the cost of his own. 

And Desmond can't justify bringing Lucy back. He just - he  _can't._ He's an assassin, as much as he hates it, and he can only come up with reasons to leave her dead. Assassins kill people, they don't bring them back to life after the fact.

And Desmond killed Lucy. As much as it was more Juno's fault, he still did it - and he... he hates himself somewhat for it, as much as it was necessary, because she  _was_ a traitor, there was no denying that... but...

_She never has to be a traitor in the first place if she was never an assassin._

Desmond paused, at that sudden realisation. 

He can acess his ancestral memories. What's stopping him, just this once, for asking his dad to not be a fucking dickhead and listen to his son?

Desmond walked through the expanse, across the loading screen until he saw the man in question.

William Miles. Mentor. Father. Not the best human being, but he did try, at least a little there, towards Desmond's end. 

Desmond reached out and grabbed the memory he needed. The Stillmans were assassins, but they were new ones. Bill had recruited Lucy's father, as an assignment from the mentor at the time. Lucy's mother, at one point, considered leaving the brotherhood.

The Mentor, William Miles, told her not to. So she didn't, and she didn't take her kid with her, and at fifteen Lucy was told she'd have to be a templar plant, and then unceremoniously kicked out of the farm. 

There. Then. Her mother, convince her to at least get Lucy out of all this. Desmond picked that memory, and  _focused._

* * *

His dad jumped slightly when Desmond appeared because of course, he did. It's not every day you see your son as a glowing gold, adult-shaped translucent apparition. 

"Her daughter will be a traitor," Desmond said. "Dad, please. Let them leave."

"Bill?" The woman, Audrey, glanced around. "What are you looking at?"

" _Dad,_ please," Desmond said. "She'll turn traitor. She'll get a bunch of us killed. Including me."

A little white lie. But William Miles didn't need to know that. 

"Leave." His Dad snapped, to the both of them. 

"I can?" Audrey asked, placing a hand over her front; she was heavily pregnant. This had been an impulse decision, Desmond knew just from looking at her that she hadn't thought this through, but...

Lucy wouldn't be born here. Indeed, given how the assassins cut ties, she probably wouldn't even be named Lucy. 

"Leave," Bill repeated. "Leave the Farm, leave the  _country,_ start a new life with a new identity. We taught you how to forge, do it. Make yourself a citizen of somewhere else. I never want to see you again, understood?"

" _Thank you,"_ Audrey breathed out, grateful and disbelieving. 

William grunted in acknowledgement. Audrey fled the room. 

"Thanks, Dad," Desmond said, for what felt like the first genuine time in his life.

"What did she really do?" He asked.

"Lucy Stillman was a plant on both sides." Desmond said. "You cut ties with her at fifteen until she was entrenched enough in abstergo that she'd been made templar. Clay Kackzmarek was an infiltrator, too, but you put him in there as a test subject. He died, mostly due to Vidic but in part because Lucy didn't rescue him the way she rescued me - and it was stupidly easy for her to do that, by the way, so the only reason she didn't... I don't even know. Cover isn't worth someone's life. Especially when they knew as much as Clay did. Anyway, she got me out of there, and from that point on was telling the Templars everything we did and found out. That's why they always ended up a step ahead of us... and it's why she died."

"Thank you for telling me, Desmond." William Miles said. "Is this how you spoke to Altair?"

"It's in his diaries, isn't it?" Desmond sighed. "Yeah. It is. Except I was speaking to me, too, at that point."

William frowned.

"You'll find out," Desmond said. "Thanks for the scar, by the way," Desmond said, and before Bill could say anything, he was gone. 

* * *

His scar, the one over his lip, was not gone when he returned to The Grey, and the reason had not changed. In fact, William Miles did not act like he'd ever had that conversation with Desmond when around his young son, and for that, Desmond was grateful. 

"For once I'm thankful Bill's an asshole," Clay said. "It makes leaving your life alone much easier." 

Desmond looked at him. "I didn't bring her back," He said, directly addressing the elephant in the room.

"I don't even remember her," Clay said. "Sort-of. I mean, she's there, but also I've memories where Vidic had a different assistant, who actually  _tried_ to get me out of there. Didn't work, of course, but... at least she tried."

"I remember Lucy's replacement, on the team with Shawn and Rebecca," Desmond said. "An actual assassin. We managed to stay away from the Templars a lot more with her."

"Funny, how the replacement you got was blonde, blue-eyed, and by the name of Lisa Smith," Clay said, sitting up. "It's almost like some things have to be the same."

Desmond laughed, a bit, as he sat down next to the blonde man. "Funny." He echoed. 

He hadn't killed her. She wasn't a traitor; he hadn't needed to.

The coma, it seemed, had happened anyway. After all, some things had to be the same, and as far as History knew, Desmond had to go into that coma, so Clay could die properly and enter the Grey. 

That would change, of course, the more Desmond changed the past. He'd just... he'd had to do this first. He'd  _had to._

* * *

 

Saying the right things to the right people was easier, during Ezio's time. Desmond talked a few times with the man's father, talked a few times with Ezio before he became a proper assassin; when he was drunk, or half-asleep, just because Desmond - he didn't want Ezio to loose the childhood he'd managed to have. The childhood his parents had allowed him to have. 

He started changing things early. Told Ezio's father exactly what he needed to know, told him who he could and couldn't trust. It took twenty tries to get him to believe him without the need for something he'd said would happen if the man didn't listen actually happening, but he managed it all the same.

Ezio, Frederico, Petrucio, Claudia - they all grew up the way they had. Desmond, though not a direct descendent to the others, could speak to them, even if they could not see him. 

It amounted to this: There was nothing Desmond could change that would stop Giovanni's death. Nothing at all. he could warn about the betrayal, he could warn about being taken from his home - he could warn about everything, and the man would still die, hung, by Templars with too much power.

That was a fixed point - much like Desmond. Much like Altair's Library. Much like, it seemed, Clay. 

Ezio hated Desmond, for at least five years. It took him fifty tries to get the amount of time that low, and Desmond... he left it there. His inability to save Giovanni - it was simple fact, but it hurt, too, because he'd lived Ezio's life out in full - and Giovanni was much more of a father to Ezio than William had ever been to Desmond. 

_"You are my descendant, are you not?" Giovanni had asked, early on._

_"Yeah," Desmond said. "Desmond Miles."_

_"You look like my son," Giovanni smiled. "It is good to know our genes held strong."_

_"A lot of our family looks the same, or at least similar enough to be confused about who's_ who. _" Desmond said. "Altair, Ezio. et cetera."_

_"We are descended from Altair?" Giovanni's smile grew. "I don't know," Desmond said. "I am."_

_"Then that is enough," Giovanni decided. "Your family is my family, after all."_

_"I don't think you'd wanna adopt my dad," Desmond had said, dryly, but left it at that._

The memories played out similarly to how Desmond remembered them. He didn't need to make  _that_ many changes, in truth - just save a few lives. Ezio had ended up the happiest out of Desmond's ancestors, for a while before his death at 54, Desmond knew. He knew Sofia made him happy, that his children made him happy, and he made sure, despite his changes, that it would always be Sofia Desmond was descended from.

(Her ancestry was nothing special, so history seemed inclined to not mind changing that part of his lineage. But Desmond didn't really care if he was descended from more assassins, or important people (because Haytham wasn't an assassin and Maria wasn't one for most of her life), he just... he cared that Ezio got his happy ending. He couldn't have given one to Altair, but he could, at the very least,  _try_ to give one to Ezio.)

So. Desmond saved lives. Throughout history, he knew, dead lineages continued, threads of genetic memory travelling further towards modern day, if not always reaching it. 

So many people who'd died, that now did not (at least, when they had done, in the way that they had; no longer were their deaths brutal, at least); Mario, who ended up dead of old age, Yusuf, who died of an unavoidable illness but quietly and in his sleep, and so,  _so many others;_ another example, Caterina, who simply had a better later life before her death. 

And, of course; Frederico. Petrucio died young; frail and ill, it was inevitable, but he was not  _hung._ But Frederico  _lived._

Much like Ezio, he married, had children, and died, peacefully. 

It was nicer a fate than the original Auditores had had. Desmond deemed his work done here, in saving the ones that needed saving. 

Now, for the shroud. 

* * *

 

It was simple, really. History had already set in stone his changes regarding death and the end of people's various lives - so when it came to getting the shroud somewhere safe, it was  _easy._ Moterrigoni was rebuilt, and lasted for years more; it is where Ezio and his family ended up settling down, and so it was where the Shroud was kept. Safe, where the Armour of Altair had stayed for - centuries, probably. 

And safe for many centuries more - where the past Desmond would one day find himself. 

Simple. Next - to sort out  _past-_ _Desmond's_ experiences with reliving Altair's memories and Ezio's memories, to make sure he saw them in the right order. Met Desmond in the right order.  

Easy enough. Being Desmond, and therefore  _past_ Desmond, allowed Desmond an easier time of... effecting Miles' use of the animus. He simply... locked away memories until Desmond had lived out the ones he needed him to, in the right order. It took thirty goes for Desmond to  _remember_ the right order, but that was more tedious than  _hard._

Still. He settled all that, and next...

Next. Clay. Which meant - Haytham. He couldn't alter Edward's life, not really, because he needed Haytham to be the Grand Master of the Templar Order in the Colonial Rite. 

And he needed him to set in stone various rules that would mean Vidic would be in America when he was experimenting with subjects one-through-sixteen, but in Italy from then on out, once Clay was dead, and he'd grown tired of having to get the bodies back to the families without Abstergo being involved in any way. 

This was the hardest part, really. Getting Haytham's rules to exist into the modern day, but letting them be lax enough that Italy's Rite wasn't following them. That they were exclusive to the order in the Colonies, and the modern-day American Continent.

That took... around one-hundred and fifty tries. It took even _more_ tries to make sure  _Connor_ didn't end up a Templar, somehow.  There was a very  _strange_ issue, wherein Connor ended up... he wasn't sure, but Washington somehow got ahold of an apple and Connor was never an assassin. 

Yeah. That took  _too many tries_ to fix. 

Still. In the end, Desmond fixed it. As he gave one last nod to Haytham, and the memory desynched around them - Desmond got his worst history-induced headache  _yet._

* * *

 

" _Ow, fuck!"_ Clay groaned as Desmond appeared in the Grey then nearly collapsed, only managing to simply lower himself to the ground instead.

"Ow," Desmond agreed, emphatically, as he tried to get rid of the headache he'd gotten.

"It feels like I've got the bleeding effect for  _myself,_ now," Clay grumbled, as he sent a glare Desmond's way.

"Sorry," Desmond said, "Saving your life here, or would you rather I didn't?"

"Shut up," Clay lay down. "Okay, so... Vidic in America. Amy tries to save me, dies, I get plugged in. No replacement for Amy, Vidic oversees my  _care_ himself, which - not fun, but not any worse than the first go-around, I think."

"You think?" Desmond asked.

"It's getting blurrier," Clay said. "What happened the first time. My life's changed around twenty times, now, big and little details are getting... confused, at least in the earlier run-throughs. The more recent ones are pretty clear, but I'm still always dying in the animus, saving your life, and waking up here."

"We need that to happen," Desmond said. "We'll know we got this right when we wake up."

"Fun," Clay said. "So we don't know if it's even working?"

"... No," Desmond sighed, lying down. "No, we don't."

"... Anyway," Clay tries to return the topic back to the original one. "I get very occasional breaks, in one of which I bleed all over my room and plug my brain into the animus. My body, apparently, from the files I can access, gets sent back to my dad, anonymously. There's an investigation, but nothing comes of it, and I'm buried in the graveyard near where I was raised. Great." Clay's head thumped against the ground, as echoey and strange as their footsteps. "Fucking golden."

"The shrowd keeps on disappearing, at some point," Desmond said, frustrated. "I don't know when, though!"

"We could check the other assassins," Clay said. "The big ones that I keep seeing. Arno Dorian, Evie and Jacob Frye."

"We're going in order of time periods," Desmond said. "We've done all my ancestors that I can think of that we can change things for. Connor ended up pretty happy, all things considered. Haytham died, but - that was inevitable, and necessary for Connor not to join the Templar Order, for some fucking reason. Couldn't do anything for Edward, Ezio ended up really happy, honestly, and Altair found the shroud. We've got up to the 1700s all good, so why is the shroud disappearing and ending up not in Monteriggioni despite that being where we put it?"

"Where you put it," Clay said. 

"We," Desmond said, firmly. "I wouldn't even be doing this if you hadn't built the framework."

"Hmm. Well," Clay acknowledged, then moved on, "We should probably get started, then. Arno Dorian?"

"Yeah." Desmond nodded, then stood, his history-headache mostly gone. "Let's get on with it."

* * *

Arno Dorian. Ancestor of someone called 'Callum Lynch', according to The Calculations, had interacted with, or at least come across, a piece of Eden which was rather unique, like the Shroud. 

The Sword of Eden. 

There wasn't much to change in Arno's life, really - Arno dealt with everything as well as he could, and Desmond didn't want to change  _too_ much. He made sure Elise didn't die, because indeed that was  _highly_ unecessary, as well as so _easily_ avoidable (why hadn't he just used one of his many projectile weapons? Desmond had _no idea_ ) and Desmond made sure he knew where the Sword and the Apple ended up, meaning, had Arno send them off to Monteriggioni and made  _doubly certain_ that that  _definitely happened._

In Desmond's memories, they were there. But the Shroud was still absent. So it wasn't Arno Desmond had to worry about on that front, then. 

There was something odd, though.

"Why would they, though? I mean... Napoleon.  _Christ."_

"You heard him," Clay said. "The man was very charismatic. And for all we know, only Arno was fooled. And besides - what he was saying, that sounded a lot like what assassins want, didn't it? He only really showed himself to be a proper Tyrant when he tried to get ahold of the apple to subjugate France."

Desmond thought that over and didn't know how to respond.

"It's not that black and white, Desmond," Clay said. "It never is." 

* * *

Next, it was Jacob and Evie Frye. Desmond, not linked to these two in particular, had to piggyback on the fact that someone was reliving their memories, and so it was slow-going, much like Dorian had been. 

Which worked in his favour, because the person doing that kept getting hijacked.  _A lot._

By someone called 'Bishop', who Desmond had never met, but also... 

Rebecca. Shawn. But  _christ,_ Desmond hadn't thought his death would do such a number on  _Shawn._ The man hadn't even seemed to like him! Certainly not enough to mourn. Especially given what he'd said when Desmond was in that coma - 

But no. Desmond supposed Shawn was just... like that. After all, the man liked Rebecca a whole lot, but if you didn't know that then you couldn't tell. 

The point was -

Desmond had found the shroud. 

* * *

Since he had no genetic link to any of the people involved, affecting the events was difficult. Very difficult. 

"Maybe you could try," Desmond said, to Clay, after the hundredth try. 

"It took you more than this to get Haytham to work out right," Clay said, but he stood up anyway. "And I can't do  _anything,_  remember?"

"You can try," Desmond said, stubbornly. Clay sighed and gave it a go. 

* * *

When they tried at the same time, for once they didn't get immediately kicked out. 

"Okay," Desmond said, glancing at Clay. Both of them were used to the strange Isu-projection form they took, but it was still odd to see the other as a golden hologram, practically.

Two sets of eyes drifted over to them. Desmond waved, and the girl's eyes narrowed.

Yep. Jacob and Evie could see them.

 _Perfect._  

* * *

Honestly, getting the shroud to Monteriggioni wasn't as hard as it could have been. It took way,  _way_ too many tries - probably over about three-hundred, and also a few more to make sure nobody else figured out that was where it was stored other than the people who needed to know - and also, they needed everyone to abandon Monteriggioni before Desmond and the rest showed up, Clay's body in tow, to find the place, because it needed to be empty if they were gonna drag a dead body around. 

And also, if they didn't want to be found by random Templars. 

* * *

Desmond looked through The Calculations, the next time they were in The Grey. 

"We're good," He said, relieved. "The shroud is there."

"Do we use it?" Clay asked. "Can it be used multiple times on the same person?"

Desmond assumed they were going to find out, because at that moment - something  _wrenched,_ his arm  _burned,_ and - 

The Grey desynched around him. 

* * *

"It's been  _months,_ what if it didn't work?" He heard, agitated. "We got Clay up nearly a year after he'd died, relax," Desmond frowned lightly. He recognised the voice - but why did it sound strange? Like he'd nearly never heard it before but not quite?

"Everyone shut up," Another said. "You can stop your worrying; his eyes are moving. He's alive, if not awake."

There were sounds of relief. Desmond recognised all of them. 

Was there someone missing? He couldn't tell. 

"The quicker he wakes up the quicker we can resurrect the other one," A voice said. "What was his name again?"

"Literally just said it, Bishop," He heard. "Clay. C'mon now, you're better than that."

Desmond's eyes opened. 

"Oh look, you're awake." Shawn said, bored-sounding. But Desmond, as fleeting and strange as the memories were, had seen Shawn's mood after Desmond's death - so the man wasn't as unaffected as he wanted to appear. 

"About time," Shawn continued. "There's work to be done."

"Shawn," Rebecca said, then turned to Desmond. "How are you feelin' Desmond?"

"Alive," Desmond said. "Fuck,  _ow."_

Desmond looked to his left, down at his arm.

"Yeah, the Eye did a number on you there," Lisa said. She looked somewhat like Lucy and sounded somewhat like Lucy, but she wasn't her - and Lucy, in Desmond's head, was more... dreamlike, than anything else.

Like someone that he'd never met. Lisa seemed more real, and whoever this Lucy was, that Desmond remembered-but-not-quite, it didn't really matter. Lisa was a good friend, and he didn't feel good things about that Lucy character. 

"Looks like it,  _fuck,_ ow," Desmond grunted, as he pushed himself into a seated position. 

Clay was on the other bed in the room. Or - Clay's body. 

"We gonna revive him, or...?" Desmond asked.

"Right, yes," Shawn nodded. "That was the 'work to be done' I was talking about..."

Bishop was looking straight at Desmond. 

"What?" Desmond asked.

"I could have sworn..." She muttered, then shook her head as if clearing it. "The initiate - she was... a lot of her footage was scrambled. But I could have sworn -"

"Yes, we're well aware of Desmond's strange future-past Isu-self appearing in our animi and ruining countless hours of progress," Shawn interrupted, "It's a well known and well recorded phenomena. Even  _Altair_ wrote about it, except it was more Isu-Desmond just showing up out of the blue and interrupting him with dire warnings. Nothing Ezio, or Haytham, or Edward, or Connor, or Arno, or Jacob, or Evie..."

"Yes, yes," Bishop snapped. "Fine, you've made your point." The woman glanced around the room. "If that is all, I need to go," She checked her watch. "I'm needed elsewhere."

"Yeah, go on, Bishop, we'll take it from here," Rebecca said. "C'mon, Desmond, let's go resurrect Clay, yeah?"

Desmond, who was apparently still dressed in what he'd died in (lovely. Desmond rolled his eyes at Abstergo), got up from the bed and carried the strangely lightweight shroud over to Clay, and carefully placed it on the man's body.

Clay shot up, blinking rapidly. "Fuck,  _fuck,_ ** _ow I'm alive again,"_** Clay said, "Fuck, I really need to stop dying."

Desmond laughed. "That would help," Shawn said, dryly. "We don't know how many uses the Shroud of Eden even  _has._ We're not wasting them all on you, Kaczmarek."

"No, you'll waste them on Desmond," Clay said, swinging his legs off of the side of the bed and standing. "Speaking of Desmond," Clay added, then - as if he'd done it many times before, as if it was a regular, reoccurring thing - Clay kissed him.

Oh. 

Well.

Desmond remembered that, too. 

* * *

_(There was a sound, and Shawn sighed. Lisa lowered her camera, and grinned. "Another one for the scrapbook," She announced, and Rebecca laughed.)_

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi don't think about how they still have to deal with Juno existing in reality and don't think about how they're probably gonna eventually find out Elijah exists and also how he's linked to Juno and also how that probably means he's going to /have to/ die bye


	5. A Simple Life Is Hard To Find (But By God, We'll Make It Good)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe letting Clay hitchhike in his brain was the best decision he ever made. 
> 
> (To be honest, there's no maybe about it. It just was.)

Desmond had a choice, at that moment, as Clay grabbed onto him. And as many of Desmond's choices had been - it wasn't simple. It wasn't easy. 

He chose the option likely to have the most consequences because really, that was what Desmond  _did._

* * *

When Desmond woke from his coma. Instead of saying what he knew, instead of saying what Jupiter had told him, instead of telling them they needed to go to the Grand Temple - Desmond gripped tightly at his head.

_"What the fuck did you do, seventeen?"_

_"Stop yelling, and I saved you, asshole."_

_"No you didn't, you just trapped yourself with the AI of a deadman forever in your brain, bravo-"_

"Desmond?" Rebecca asked. "Hey, Desmond."

_"-It was **my purpose** to save  **you-"**_

_**"** And yet you aren't a guardian angel, Clay, and just because some old-ass not-god told you you needed to do it doesn't mean I can't decide to save you-"_

_"But you said-"_

_"I know what I said, I'm also known for doing reckless things, I went with the former-"_

_"You fucking **braindead-"**_

_**"I will be if you don't shut up and then where would we be-"** _

_**"It's not my fault you're getting a headache you put me in here-"** _

_**"Oh fuck off-"** _

"Desmond!" William yelled.

Desmond jerked in place, and looked up at his dad. He took a shaky breath.  _Later,_ he thought.

_"I'm in your head. There's not a 'later' to be had, seventeen."_

"... Dad." Desmond said. He closed his eyes, and breathed, for a moment. 

"I-" Desmond paused. "I know what to do," He said, simply. 

* * *

It was not easy having two consciousnesses in one body, Desmond found, especially since it seemed when one slept the other was fully in control, and that when they were both awake, it led to some issues when it came to actually _doing anything_. 

"We gotta figure something out," Desmond muttered.

_"You think?"_

"We will," Rebecca said. "We'll find whatever Juno wants you to find in Haytham's memories - " And hadn't  _that_ been an experience, being Haytham-and-Clay-and-Desmond all at once- "And then we'll save the world. Easy."

"You say that," Desmond said.

"It'd be easier if you went into the animus for more than a couple hours at a time," Shaun snapped, irritable.

"No thanks," Desmond said. "I saw what happened to Clay. He ripped his wrists open, painted all over the walls of the room I had at Abstergo, bled all over the animus, and uploaded the fragments of his brain into it as an AI, which then saved my life while I was in a coma because the Animus isn't a  _medical device,_ it  _literally tried to kill me,_ and now he's gone." Desmond said, some of his angry, somewhat upset vehemence his own. 

"I'm just trying to avoid that outcome," Desmond said, simply, after taking a second to calm down (and yell at Clay.)

_"Can't exactly help it, seventeen. Stuck in your head, making your brain make connections and cause in you the emotions I'm feeling. This is why two people shouldn't be in one brain."_

_"It'd have been nice if you'd have told me that in the first place,"_ Desmond retorted.

"Des," Rebecca repeated, and Desmond glanced at her. "You okay?" She asked.

"Whatever the reason behind your constant lack of presence in the  _real world,_ it'd be great if you could at the very least, if not use the animus, be doing something more useful in that time rather than staring off into space." Shaun said. 

"Sorry," Desmond said, more to Rebecca. "Yeah. I'm fine."

* * *

 _"I need a body."_ Clay thought.

 _"I know,"_ Desmond replied.  _"How, though?"_

 _"Dead ones are... too dead,"_ Clay responded.  _"And it's not more difficult than it needs to be. Plug yourself into an animus, download me onto it, plug a templar into the animus, delete them and replace them with me. Easy."_

 _"I can't-"_ Desmond protested, _"I can't just - do that."_

 _"Sure you can,"_ Clay thought. " _You kill people on a regular basis. Think of it this way - you're not making the balance any worse. They die, but I come back to life. It's a neutral point. You're no more a murderer than you were before."_

 _"I can't."_ Desmond thought, firmly. 

 _"You have to sleep sometime,"_ Clay thought back.  _"And I **can."**_

* * *

"Is there... anything going on, Desmond?" Desmond blinked, and turned to his dad.

_"Huh. Miles showing concern. Now there's a new one."_

_"Shut up."_

"You think so?" Desmond asked. "Why?"

"The recordings are - strange..." Bill hesitated, his brows furrowing. "You... appear to have - there appears to be someone else watching Haytham's memories at the same time as you experience them."

_"Ooh, fun. Looks like you've been caught, seventeen."_

_" **Shut up.** "_

"What?" Desmond asked. "That can't - the only other presence in the animus was Clay, and he got deleted."

"You know," Bill started, "I don't think he did."

Desmond looked at his father warily. "What are you saying?" He asked.

"I think the AI hitched a ride," Bill said. "Like a virus, it's... stuck to  _you,_ somehow."

"I don't feel any different," Desmond said. 

_"Liar..."_

"Maybe not a virus," Bill allowed. "But either way - there's... something. In the audio, in the footage. It's not always your voice, and it's not always the way you fight or climb."

"Okay," Desmond said. "So if Clay's in here..." Desmond pointed to his head, "Then?"

"It's simple," Bill said. "We need to find a way to get him out again."

_"I knew it. He'll kill me, Desmond. **He will.** "_

Desmond hesitated. "What will you do to him? If he's there?"

"Find a new place for the AI to live," Bill said, "An AI is invaluable - I don't think there's even another one in existence, yet. The fact that he can interface with a human brain and even has the sense of self to be referred to as a  _he -_ we have something here, with him. He could be  _very_ useful."

"I think if you ever want his help," Desmond said, "You'd be more likely to get it if you called him Clay."

Bill inclined his head. 

_"I'm not helping **him."**_

_**"** You think I want you to? I ran away from the Farm at sixteen mostly because of Dad. I don't want you to help  **him,** but It'd be nice to have some more help while we try and save the world."_

* * *

"There is something called the Shroud of Eden," Bill said. "The Templars have it. If we get Clay onto a memory drive of some kind, like the one used in the animus  _only_ in size of storage, he can hack into Abstergo and find out where and what exactly it is."

"And why would we need that?" Shaun asked. "The world's about to end."

"Exactly," Bill said. "It revives the dead."

"Oh," Desmond said, at the same time as Clay thought  _"That might work."_

* * *

"We'll never find my body," Clay said.

"I know," Bill said. "Is Desmond-?"

"Asleep," Clay said, shortly. "The shroud only works on bodies. What are you  _planning,_ Bill Miles?"

"Contingencies," Bill said, sharply. "Both of you, and the rest of this team are  _very important people._ We  _need_ the advantage of being able to bring ourselves back if any of us die, Clay."

"You think Desmond's going to die, don't you?"

"I have my suspicions," Bill said, and he suddenly looked very,  _very_ tired. 

"I won't let that happen," Clay said. "That's not my Purpose."

"How badly did Juno get at you, Clay?" Bill asked.

"She only got me like she did because of  _you,"_ Clay snapped. "If you'd have-"

"There wasn't anything I could do." Bill interrupted. "Lucy was compromised. I didn't know, and I'm - sorry, for that lapse in awareness, but it meant I was ignorant to just what was happening on your end of things. I didn't know how bad it got until Lucy finally revealed it all to me, and that was after you were dead."

Clay looked at the man.

"I'm sorry, for that part," Bill said. "But we couldn't have saved you. We were spread too thin."

Clay glared at Bill with the man's son's eyes, then stalked off, away from The Mentor. 

* * *

 

_"I don't like this."_

_"Too bad,"_ Desmond thought back. They had the key, now. They had it. Next, all they needed - was to open the gate, and place the apple on the pedestal. 

_"Juno doesn't have anyone's interests in mind but her own, Desmond."_

_"... I know. But that includes keeping the earth alive, keeping **humanity** alive, and that's more than we can safely say will happen if the Solar Flare does hit us."_

_"... You're not wrong, there, Miles."_

_"No. I'm not."_

Desmond placed the apple on the pedestal - 

and died. 

(sort of.)

* * *

Clay woke up with a gasp. Memories of the previous day's events flashed through his mind, as he slumped back onto the seat. The van was in motion, rebecca at the wheel.

They'd nearly been caught, but not quite. 

But Desmond...

 _"Hello?"_ Clay thought, even as he tested his awareness. It was - less like looking through a window, or like feeling things through rubber gloves. He wasn't a hitchhiker, anymore. 

He was here. 

Desmond was dead. This body - was Clay's, now.

_no answer._

Clay looked across, at Bill.

"My son," Bill said. "Is he-?"

"Dead," Clay said, shortly. "What was that about getting me out of here and into Abstergo's systems?"

* * *

It was easy enough, in the end. Clay, after some hesitation, sat down on the animus. Rebecca plugged him in, and he got to work.

 _"Can you hear me?"_ Rebecca asked.  _"Clay?"_

"Loud and clear," Clay responded. There were sighs of relief.

He - had still been an AI in Desmond's head. But he'd  _felt_ more real, more human - more like himself. Maybe it was the difference in processing power, of a human brain versus the animus, but Clay felt like he had back in the black room, again.

He needed a new body. And soon. 

"Bill made our mission very clear," Shaun said. "We are to infiltrate Abstergo, and through John - along with some oblivious and idiotic employees - get you into the system. From there, you need to find the shroud... but at that point, you're on your own."

"I know the drill, Hastings," Clay said. "I've done this before."

"And you died," Shaun said, sharply. "Shaun," Rebecca reprimanded, heatedly. "Look, Clay," She said, "We need this. Or Desmond's gonna stay dead, and Bill might get the idea to put you back in his body - Desmond's... kind of a symbol, to the other assassins," Rebecca said. "All their lineages, for the most part, lead down to Desmond. He's... hope, as much as he doesn't know that, for a lot of people." Rebecca paused. "If he can't come back, then Bill's... probably gonna get you to pretend, for at least a little while, to be him."

Yeah.  _No._

"Understood," Clay said. "How long until I can be plugged into Abstergo?"

"A while," Rebecca said. 

"See you then," Clay said, and put himself into sleep mode.

* * *

Apparently some weirdness went down with John and the Analyst, but Clay was in the system anyway - and though he could sense traces of Juno, she was long gone. 

Out. Onto the internet. Clay shuddered, mentally, at all the people she could ensnare, now. Like she'd done with him. 

But he's not here for that. This division of Abstergo Entertainment is working on most of their games - the mainline ones, anyway - and there's this one set in London, during the Industrial Revolution, where the shroud is mentioned. Clay piggybacked off of Analyst to Analyst, finding out everything he could - and then he found, once the game was released to the public, someone playing it who had ancestry of that line.

Perfect. 

Clay, familiar with the animus, fiddled with the console variant until it worked - a little closer. Not enough to give the kid bleeding effect, of course, but  _enough_ so that it worked with the  _real_ genetic memories, and not... what the Templars had wanted.

At some point, someone called 'Bishop' tried to intervene. He let her, since she was as much against the Templars and, it seemed, Juno as Clay was, but he kept an eye on her from that point on.

Through this kid, he got updates on Rebecca, on Shaun - on everyone. The kid kept finding bits and pieces of data and putting together audio files and transcripts, which was useful.

And then - through these, linking back, going through the servers -

He found it. 

* * *

"Shaun," Rebecca said, "Shaun, Clay sent us an update."

"Finally," Shaun said, dryly. "It's not like it's been over a year or anything..."

"Give him a break," Layla said, "Abstergo's security is  _tight,_ I'm lucky I found as much as I did without getting caught."

"... True," Shaun said.

"... He found it," Rebecca said, her tone belying her disbelief. She couldn't - but it was there. Right there. Footage, documents, everything. 

They knew where it was.

"Well then," Shaun said. "Time to go retrieve them both, then, isn't it?"

* * *

 _"Clay,"_ Clay heard, a voice he didn't recognise.  _"I'm Layla. Really sorry, by the way, about the delay. Good thing you put yourself into sleep mode, they'd have found you otherwise. Anyway! I'm here to get you out. Rebecca and Shaun are causing a distraction, so we don't have much time, but -"_

 _"_ Do you have any cameras?"Clay asked.

 _"Oh, you want eyes? Yeah, sure, one sec-"_ And a few moments later, Clay found links to the outside world. He set up a way to see them, a way to look, a way to control the cameras - and nodded. "Okay," Clay said. "Can you hear me?"

" _Not exactly,"_ Layla said, " _It's... I can see what you're saying. You've got a text-based display."_

"Wonderful," Clay said, dryly. "You've got comms, right? Let me at them."

 _"Sure,"_ Layla said.

 _"_ And I'll turn off the text input," Clay added, annoyed.  _"Dumb."_

 _"Design flaw,"_ Layla agreed.  _"Can you get into the security network? Shut off the CCTV?"_

"I can do one better," Clay said. He erased and shut off the CCTV, he locked all doors that they didn't need to go through, and he distracted and trapped various Templars in rooms which he then sealed shut. Templars loved to have ways to cover their tracks by destroying everything they have, so Clay simply set off various lethal gas 'just in case' commands, and the Templars who were either unaware or unprepared for this eventuality started dying.

"Let's go," Clay said, and Layla chucked him into the air. 

Ah. She'd added some drone parts. Useful. Clay flew along after Layla, helped her navigate unseen. Layla had appeared to just add whatever she had onto Clay at that moment, which meant he had some very strange and some very useless functions, but there were a few that would help. 

Clay tasered a Templar before he could shout out for his friends, and the two made their way through the room - careful, quiet, deadly. 

Clay and Layla left a trail of dead Templars in their wake and met up with Rebecca and Shaun in the van parked outside. Shaun floored the gas, and Clay settled down on a seat. 

"You made him a drone?" Shaun asked.

"Exoskeleton," Layla said. "He's still just a memory unit. Very small processing power - enough for him, and enough storage for him, but he's definitely designed to plug into something better, something bigger."

Layla looked at Clay with interest. He would've raised an eyebrow at her if he could. 

"Hey now," Layla said, offended. "I only wanna help you."

Ah, yes, the cameras. He moved them closer together as if narrowing his eyes at her. 

"Fine! Fine, I'll tell you what I can do," Layla said. "I'm not an animator, but I could probably get you a full interface, which... could you project something onto that? You seem to have the most control..."

"I could probably show up," Clay said, and Shaun jolted in his seat.

"You can talk," Shaun said.

"As much as I look like a normal-enough drone right now," Clay said, dryly, "I  _am_ an AI. I am as much Clay as I am a construct, or so Desmond kept trying to convince me. So - _yes,_ I can _talk,_ Hastings."

"You don't think so? About - being Clay?" Rebecca asked. "I didn't really know you very well, but seem pretty real to me, man."

"... Thanks," Clay said.

"So," Layla got a glint in her eye. "About giving you some  _useful_ upgrades - sorry about the soap dispenser, I just had it on me..."

* * *

With Layla and Rebecca and yes, Shaun's upgrades (because Shaun was  _very_ good with the software side of things, while the other two were more hardware, though that wasn't to say any of the three were necessarily  _bad_ at either - they're  _geniuses)_ and Clay's first-hand input, Clay's little robot-drone form took shape quite nicely. Rebecca and Layla argued a lot about the form of it, of course, and Clay didn't really care since what mattered was the  _display,_ where his  _actual_ form would be shown, but - whatever. They compromised, eventually, with Layla's sleek angles and straight lines and Rebecca's softer curves and unnecessary embellishments. 

It's easiest to tell the differences in their styles just by looking at their respective animi. 

Shaun worked with Clay on making sure his - well, operating system, Clay supposed - was 'up to snuff', and Clay ended up with a pretty nice, small, simulated room and practice area he could train in. 

He didn't want his mind to forget everything he'd ever learned when in a human body, after all.

Anyway. 

"All done," Layla said, sitting back, proud. Clay sat on the couch and stared at the projection of the outside world which was situated on the wall across. There was even a projector doing the projection, and everything.

"Okay," Clay said, then glitched to standing in front of the 'window'. "You can see me?"

"Yep, we can at that," Layla said. "Deanna's gonna love this, I tell you."

"Right," Clay said. "Rebecca?" He asked.

"All clear," she said. "All your functions are working - you'll be able to help on missions and things."

The apple stored away in his chassis had nothing to do with some of those functions, of course. Nothing at all.

_(Lies, obviously. But the apple stored away there, he was using that to keep an eye on Juno, too, and the fewer people that knew about it, the less likely it was it'd come to her attention.)_

"Great," Clay said. "And the shroud?"

"Safe," Shaun said. "It's working it's magic on Desmond as we speak, in fact." Shaun turned the monitor around, showing CCTV footage of Desmond in the recovery room the hideout had. 

"Awesome," Rebecca said. "You wanna try some stuff out while we wait, Clay?"

"Yeah," Clay said. "Might as well."

* * *

"So you're a drone now," Desmond said, tired sounding, from his place on the bed in his room. He'd been moved, in case the recovery room was needed - and there wasn't anything wrong with him... that they could fix.

Clay flicked his cameras down to Desmond's arm again, before looking at the man properly. He only looked tired, not like he was in any pain, or anything - but Clay couldn't see how  _that_ didn't... at least feel uncomfortable.

"I'm an AI  _in_ a drone," Clay said. "More of a robot shell, really. It's better than being stuck inside  _your_ head, anyway," He said.

"Yeah," Desmond grimaced, rubbing at his temple with his non-messed up hand. "No more headaches, at least."

"No more trying to move one limb differently from how the other was, and ending up flat on our face," Clay added.

"True," Desmond said. "What's it like, in there?"

Clay spread his arms out. "As you can see," He said, dryly, "Much nicer than the Island."

"Right," Desmond said. "But..."

"You meant what's it like, now I remember what it was like to be in a human brain again?" Clay asked. "... fucking weird. Everything's slower, in some ways, but I can do - a lot more, without having to worry about human needs and shit."

"Right," Desmond repeated. "Okay."

"At least I prove that you don't need to die if your body does," Clay added, dryly. "Layla's probably written it down somewhere. 'If I ever go into a coma, or something irreparable happens to my body, or if I nearly die again because I forgot my medication, put me in a robot, please.'"

"Layla?" Desmond asked.

"Tempalr turncoat," Clay said. "Like Lucy, but the opposite way around, and never a spy for any side. I don't think she'd be very good at it, which, honestly, is a good sign. I mean...  _Lucy_ was  _very good_ at it, after all."

Desmond swallowed. "Yeah," He said. "She was."

Clay scoffed but dropped it. 

"So how many of us are there left?" Desmond asked. "Since I died? Assassins, I mean?"

"There are actually more of us," Clay said. "As far as I know."

"Good," Desmond said. "That's - good."

"You know," Clay said, "You did  _die._ Abstergo's very much under the impression that we all did, in that temple. They found the aftermath and figured the blast burned us all up. It's really helped, actually - they only know Rebecca and Shaun and Layla and Deanna aren't dead because two of them worked for them and two of them showed their faces too much." Clay shrugged. "But they think you're dead, they think Bill might be, and I died years ago. There's no reason why they would think I'm still here."

"Right," Desmond nodded. "What's your point?"

"You could leave," Clay said. "You've done your part. Your destiny's finished. You saved the world, which is the part Minerva wanted, and you freed Juno, which is the part she wanted. Minerva's gone, now, and Juno's finished with you. You could... move on. Leave the country, start a new life."

"I'd regret it," Desmond said. "I mean, you all brought me back. I can't - just  _leave."_

"At least you still make sense," Clay said. "... that is, to me." 

* * *

"There's no way to bring Clay back in his own body," Bill said, "So we just need to find him a new one."

"Or build him a new one," Layla said.

"Layla," Bill said. " _Find._ You are  _very_ good at what you do, but there's no technology that can make a robotic form as human as a real human."

"Why would he want that?" Layla asked. "He  _died._ He's an  _AI._ Sleep, food, all the rest of that shit, why would he want to need that? We find some people in our side of the cause that know their shit when it comes to art and other creative stuff, and we work with them to create a robot looking as much like Clay's old human form as possible. We made a  _portable animus,_ and you've seen what Clay can do with First Civ-based tech. We can make  _something_ work."

"Why don't we  _ask_ the AI what he wants?" Shaun said, rolling his eyes. He turned in his chair to look at them for a moment, before returning his eyes to the CCTV footage. He was on watch right now; it'd be Rebecca's turn next. The woman in question was currently working on a few upgrades to her Animus - Layla itched to fix up her own, but she needed to win this argument first. 

"Hey, yeah, there's an idea," Desmond said, entering the room. "How about we ask Clay what he wants? Dad, you at least owe him  _that."_

"I don't owe him anything," Bill said, resolute. "He knew what he was getting into - and Lucy's betrayal was  _not_ my fault, Desmond-"

"Bullshit," Desmond said, "You abandoned her to the wolves at  _fifteen,_ ** _dad,_** she was a kid. She was younger than  _me,_ when-"

"That's  _enough,_ Desmond," Bill said, firmly. 

"What's enough?" Clay asked, floating into the room. 

"... Nothing," Desmond said. "Do you want a human or a - mechanical body?"

"I'm as much Clay as an AI," Clay said. "I don't mind either, so much. But I think it'd be safer for me in a mechanical one."

"Why?" Layla asked, curious. She was glad - jumping up and down, mentally, at the idea of working on such an ambitious project - but she couldn't help but wonder why it'd be safer (of course, there were the obvious ways - but the way Clay  _said_ 'safer' - the tone he'd used...) -

"It's very simple," Clay said. "Clay killed himself. Used a pen to rip his wrists open after they took away the mirror the first time he tried it - then he wrote a  _message_ for Desmond in his own blood, you see, because he  _had to know -_ and then Clay plugged himself into the Animus, and now I'm here; an AI. Not quite dead, not quite alive."

Layla hadn't known how Clay had died. 

"But you're not an AI then," Layla said, swallowing past the bile in her throat, "You're Clay's consciousness - the stable enough parts, anyway - transferred onto First-Civ-based tech. You're as much an AI as those Isu ghosts."

"Then I'm a ghost," Clay said. "Either way, I'm dead. What's the point of sticking me in a body made of flesh and bone when, for all intents and purposes, my  _consciousness_ is made up of lines of code?"

"Then we need a first-civ based body," Layla concluded. "Which is easy enough, right? Just - find some of those power cubes, rip apart animus base code, use the apple in some way - build a chassis, and have someone with an eye for art mould what you look like into it as much as is possible."

"Fine," Bill said, sharply. "Build him a body. But you'll need to find out how on your own, we can't spare the resources-"

"Whatever, sure, thanks Bill," Layla said, already moving towards her computer. "Maybe the initiates might know some people?"

"So long as you don't tell them-" Bill started, sharp still.

"I know, Bill, C'mon, I'm no idiot," Layla said. "They'll know only what they need to. It's not like I'm not known for doing shit like this, after all."

* * *

* * *

It takes years, really, for Clay to get a proper body. The technology just wasn't really there yet, at that point. 2019 passes, 2020 passes, and everyone's getting older. Clay's getting more and more - himself; more human-like. 

2023, they make a breakthrough. 

"Great!" Layla yelled in triumph. "Now I'm gonna make  _me_ one!"

"You think you're the only one?" Rebecca asked. "I'm not dying of old age, thanks."

"Losing my good looks  _is_ against the agenda..." Shaun mused, considering. 

"Dickhead," Rebecca grinned, pleased. "How are you feeling, Clay?"

Clay tilted his head, assessing. "Like a person," He decided. "I'm still an AI, but... this is the closest we've gotten to human-brain levels of processing and - everything," He said. "Awareness - high, higher than last time but not as noisy as the time before. Movement -" Clay's arm lifted then dropped, smoothly -"Immediate. Yeah. Everything seems to be working."

"I finally got emotional responses to work, too," Siobhan said. "Signals from the 'brain' to the rest of the body are working now. Happiness, embarrassment, lust, anger, et cetera. All there."

"And your face is the closest I can get," Max grimaced. "Not... exactly the same. That's... I'm not  _that_ good, but you look like you, and there's no 'uncanny valley' going on."

"Getting the face-plates right was a nightmare," Rebecca said, as Layla groaned. "Don't remind me," She said. "Fitting everything into a human shaped-and-sized body? A total mess. Please don't ever try and look at your wiring, I never want to think about it again."

"If anything goes wrong like with Mark Thirty, you'll have to," Alan pointed out. "Regardless - the joints and the body's chassis is my best work yet."

"I can tell," Clay said. "Smoother movements than the ones I remember from Desmond's body."

"Hey now," Desmond said. "Rude."

"Your body's perfectly  _fine,"_ Clay said, grinning.

"Hey, the facial expressions don't look like creepy shit this time!" Alexis grinned and high-fived her brother. "We did good," Max agreed. 

"I want one," Layla repeated. "Never having to sleep again? I'm already sold. I want one."

"We've got a few more kinks to work out yet," Deanna said, reasonably. "This is the first stable build. This is the 'beta' phase. Alpha's over now, but there's still a lot of work to do."

"Namely making it more useful than the drone form," Rebecca said. "And making it so you don't have to let it rest after every thirteen hours of use."

"The cooling system could do with some work," Layla agreed. "And right now the Mark 20 drone-form is way more useful on missions."

"That's because I know how to use it," Clay said. "And because it's got a bunch of cool as shit functions," Layla added. "Which is what we're gonna be slowly adding from now on."

"But for now," Deanna said, "You need to get used to that one, and we need to make the cooling systems better. Thirteen-hours isn't the best for a  _body."_

"Funny how Bill's still perfectly happy living on the systems," Rebecca said.

"You've heard him," Layla rolled her eyes. "He wants a human body. Well, tough luck, we haven't found a Templar in good enough shape since his last one died."

"How's your arm, Desmond?" Max asked, moving away from Rebecca and Layla as they argued amongst themselves. 

"Same as ever," Desmond said. "Weird. Blackened and covered in occasionally-glowing circuitry."

"Are you sure you don't want a new one?" Alexis wheedled, for the umpteenth time. "We'll make it look all pretty and whatever, and the rest of the team can make it actually able to feel things."

"It's fine," Desmond said. "It's more useful to have an indestructible arm, anyway. And we work with too much First-Civ tech to get rid of it - Sarah's analyses on the thing saved us so much trouble with Juno."

"At least let Leo operate on the nerves," Max tried. "Not feeling anything in that arm has got to be at the very least annoying."

"... Fine," Desmond said. "Fine, once those nano-whatsits of Layla's are stable enough to work on a person in case anything goes wrong... fine."

Alexis grinned. 

"Bishop!" Deanna said, surprised. The woman sighed, and walked in, prosthetic leg clanging against the metal floor of the workshop. "There's a mission," she said, "Simple retrieval. The Sword of Eden was located recently - Bill was stumbling around in Abstergo's systems with a few trainees and accidentally found a back way in," She pursed her lips. "There appears to be a mutiny in progress. Regardless, Callum has an in with Sofia - but just this once, and then all the favours are up on her end, so I  _suggest_ you get this right first try." She looked at all of them. "Send your best, and only your best. Three at max.  _And don't get caught."_

"I mean, we are assassins," Alexis said, folding her arms. "Or. Well.  _They_ are."

Bishop sighed. "Alexis..."

"I know! I know, 'go to training', well, I'd rather help make robots," She said. "So there."

Alexis and Max had stumbled in on this mess. They'd just been messing around with the tech Abstergo had 'donated' to their college, while they were seeing what models they could make with it, and Siobhan had saved them from being permanent captives while on a mission. 

"I'll make sure she at least goes once a fortnight," Alan said. "Dude," Alexis sighed. "Really?"

"You don't wanna die, do you?" Rebecca pointed out. "Let the initiates train you."

"Alright, fine," Alexis said. "If Desmond at least agrees to  _cybernetic_ enhancements of his arm if not a full replacement."

"Whatever," Desmond said. "When it's safe."

"Good enough," She decided. 

* * *

"So," Desmond said. "How do you feel?" 

"... Closer to how it felt when you," Clay said, "After you'd died and I was the only one left in there."

"That was years ago," Desmond said. "I don't even really remember it."

"That's because you keep dying," Clay said. "Y'know, one of these days, that shroud's just gonna give up."

"Not yet," Desmond said. 

"How's your arm?" Clay asked.

"Weirder," Desmond said. 

"Fun." Clay sat down on the couch, and Desmond sat next to him. 

"Look," Desmond said. "It's - whatever happened to it, I'm not sure it's a good idea to mess with it."

"We used an  _apple_ to create this," Clay said, gesturing to himself. He looked for all intents and purposes like a human if that human had had just a  _smidge_ of plastic surgery - but  _good_ plastic surgery, that you  _probably_ wouldn't notice unless you knew or had a keen eye. "Messing with what the First-Civ's tech screwed up isn't exactly beyond us, now."

Desmond sighed and leaned back. Clay tapped his arm, but he didn't feel it, just saw it out of the corner of his eye. Desmond turned his head to look at the other man.

"What happens next time you die?" Clay asked.

"I come back," Desmond said, "Again. The arm gets weirder, again. It gets easier to use First-Civ tech, again."

"One of these days you're gonna wake up an Isu and there's nothing we'll be able to do about it at that point,  _seventeen,"_ Clay said, standing.

"It's been a while since you called me that," Desmond said, staying where he was. "What's-"

"What's wrong?" Clay turned to look at Desmond. "How about the fact that the Isu aren't  _humans?_ They don't feel things like they do. What if when you wake up, that last time, and you don't give a shit about any _person_ anymore?"

"You keep on saying you aren't human because you're an AI," Desmond said. "But clearly you  _are. Code,_ or genes, we're  _human_ because we were raised that way. I've always had a stupidly high concentration of Isu DNA for someone born millennia after the last one - except Juno - died. And as you've noticed, I'm not any less myself every time the Shroud is used on me. Just like _you're_ no more or less  _yourself, **Clay,**_ because you're an AI now."

Clay's obvious frustration grew, and Desmond could see with his second sight the glow of the apple at the man's core, where a heart would be in a human, glow brighter, alongside the power-cubes tightly packed in wherever they could pack them in.

"That's not - that's different," Clay said. "I'm  _not_ human. I'm an AI, code made by a dying man to be  _like_ the dying man, that was helped along in that by the Animus' technology.  _Isu_ technology. I'm more of an Isu AI than a human one, that's  _obvious,_ and-"

"And you're getting frustrated," Desmond said. "Angry. Upset. All very  _human_ emotions, yeah?"

Clay dropped back down on the couch. "We just needed to improve the body," Desmond said. "If it's been bugging you  _this much_ that you weren't feeling things properly you could've  _said._ We'd have prioritized it. It's been  _years,_ Clay. We could've made it one of the first working things if you'd  _asked."_

"You haven't really done anything," Clay said, lightly, teasing. "Just occasionally  _touched my heart_ to make sure nothing was about to explode."

"See, yeah, that's  _not_ nothing," Desmond said, elbowing Clay in the side. "I helped. And if you'd've  _asked,_ I'd've made sure they prioritised what you wanted to be prioritised."

"Emotional response isn't that important," Clay said. "Not exploding is important."

"If it was messing with your head, then it  _was_ important," Desmond said. "You're not self-destructing on my watch."

"My guardian angel," Clay echoed, dryly.

"It's obvious you need one," Desmond said, changing the script. 

* * *

___Twenty years later..._

* * *

"All done." 

Desmond - blinked. "Guess the shroud finally gave up on me." He said. 

"Not quite," Clay said. "That's still mostly your 90% Isu body. We've just... we revived you, induced a coma, and fixed what went wrong."

"Let me guess," Desmond said. "It tried to make my body 100% consist of Isu DNA, but that wouldn't really  _work_ from a human base."

"Yeah," Clay said. "How long did it take?" Desmond asked. Clay shrugged. "Two years," he admitted. Desmond whistled, as he swung his legs off of the side of the bed and glanced at the man. You couldn't tell, nowadays, that Clay wasn't in a human body. Until, of course, he used one of the functions his current one had that humans didn't - but then, what with cybernetics and all the rest... humans were more capable of what they used to be capable of.

Just goes to show what advancements you can make with ancient technology and the right geniuses. 

"How'd the unveiling go?" Desmond asked.

"We rank over Abstergo in most everything except pharmaceuticals," Clay told him. "And that's only because they have the best chemists in the world under apple-control."

"Lovely," Desmond said. "That's a mission for later, I'm guessing?"

"Yeah," Clay said. "First, you need to get used to the... upgrades we gave you, in trying to fix what the Shroud broke when it couldn't use any more Isu DNA to revive you - there was a failsafe in it, we think, that the Isu had there just in case the rebellion got a hold of the Shroud... it'd kill the person that used it if they were too close to being fully Isu."

"Great, fun," Desmond said. "Why didn't it kill me?"

"They put too close at around 100%," Clay said, "Which you were not. It couldn't make you that, so it didn't really know what to do. We used our apples to convince it to revive you, then immeditely removed it before it could try and kill you - we're still not sure how that works," He looked over Desmond, assessing. "You seem alright," Clay said. 

"I feel pretty great, actually," Desmond said.

"Well, that's because you're not  _old_ anymore, Des," Clay grinned, teasing. 

"Fuck off," Desmond said, without heat. "How old are you supposed to be?"

"Thirty," Clay said, promptly. "Because I'm  _dead."_

"Then I died around the age of Twenty-Five," Desmond said. "I never got old. I died."

"Glad that's settled," Clay said, grinning still. Desmond stood, not missing the lack of aches in his bones, and walked over to the window. 

"Nice," He said. "Penthouse."

"Always liked the sky," Clay said, standing beside him. "Wanted to go to space, before... all this."

"That's next on the agenda, isn't it?" Desmond asked. "I mean - so long as our tech doesn't fail any time soon, we've got... pretty much forever. Space exploration's not so unlikely." 

Desmond grabbed Clay's hand and squeezed, lightly. "And once the Templars are dealt with," Desmond said. "Maybe we can finally retire from this side of things. We can - explore space, and have a portable bar, and a bunch of other shit I never thought possible even just a decade ago," Desmond glanced over at Clay. 

"We've almost won," Desmond said. " _So close."_

"Abstergo's going bankrupt," Clay said. "Shaun finally got to whistleblow on their dirty little secrets like he's always wanted. Rebecca and Layla have turned their attention towards trying to figure out how the Eye stopped the flare, along with all the others on that team. Alan's side of things are trying to see if a physical shield would work - one that still let light and the right amount of heat through, of course. Also..."

Clay hesitated.

"What?" Desmond asked.

"There was something we found out, while you were under," Clay said. "I don't know how we missed it for this many decades, but..."

"What?" Desmond repeated.

"You have a kid, Desmond." Clay looked at him. "You're a father."

"What?" Desmond echoed, struck dumb. "I'm- how?"

"Well, I assume you had sex at some point when you'd run away from the farm," Clay said, dryly, "And that girl or woman then got pregnant, and -"

"No, I get that part," Desmond tugged at Clay's arm and turned to face him properly. "But  _how?"_

"We don't know how the kid managed to stay hidden this long," Clay looked out the window. "He's..." Clay sighed. "The kid's a sage, Des."

"... No," Desmond said. "He can't -  _Juno wouldn't fucking dare -"_ Desmond let go of Clay and started pacing.

"She did." Clay sighed, turned his back to the window. 

"Tell me she's dead already," Desmond said, "Because I don't think I'd be able to _just_ kill her."

"Trust me, I'm not any less likely to want to torture her," Clay said, frankly, "For everything. She's not quite dead yet, but she's close. We've  _almost_ got her weak enough to shove her in a human body and then -"

"Then," Desmond said, "... nothing good, I hope."

"Not for her," Clay agreed. "C'mon." He moved away from the wall. "Rebecca and Shaun's anniversary is tomorrow. It'd be a nice surprise for you to be alive, but I think it'd probably steal their thunder or something," He said, dryly.

"Hey, I missed ours," Desmond said, suddenly annoyed. Clay rolled his eyes at him.

"We can celebrate two years' worth of them after we tell the others you're no longer dead," Clay said. "Now come on."

"Sounds like a plan," Desmond said, and the two men left the bedroom. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi look it's a happy one for the last 'when they ended up together at some point' ones now let's hurt you brutally with the last chapter... which is where they don't.


	6. Everything is Permitted.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Solar Flare, the Templars take over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is depressing. Have fun!!

Desmond Miles, sixteen and terrified, terrified of the place he grew up in, terrified of the indoctrinated people surrounding him, terrified of everything and nothing -

Stared up at his father. 

"It wasn't a terrible effort." William Miles said. "I _almost_ missed your plans. If they weren't about abandoning us, abandoning your people, abandoning your  _cause,_ I'd give you credit for it."

Desmond stood. "You can't make me stay." He said. "I'll find a way out. I'll find my way out, eventually."

"No," the Mentor said. "No, I don't think you will, Desmond."

* * *

A few years later, the Templars kill Desmond's mother.

He stops trying to escape. 

* * *

"There's a mission," The Mentor said, and Desmond - assassin, capable, twenty-one years old - stood up straight, and nodded to the man. "Tell me," He said, already mentally preparing himself.

"Vidic will be in America, soon," Miles said. "Interrogate him. Kill him. Rebecca will be on your comms for this mission."

"Lucy's in place then," Desmond said. "To take over."

"Yes." The Mentor inclined his head. 

"Good." Desmond turned away from his father, conversation over. He returned to the punching bag, and The Mentor left the room, quiet as a ghost. 

* * *

Subject Nine. Elizabeth Miles. Desmond remembered little about his mother, but then, Desmond had some trouble with his early memories, anyway. 

Desmond closed the file. "You're going to die for this," He said, plainly, to Warren Vidic. There were other files, too; Daniel Cross, Clay Kaczmarek, Lisa Smith - innocents and assassins and Templars alike. 

They hadn't been discriminatory when it came to who they subjected to the animus. 

"I'll die," Vidic said, smirking. " _I'll die?_ Desmond Miles," Vidic chuckled. "You know  _nothing."_

Desmond sliced open the man's throat, collected the files in his bag, and escaped out the window. 

* * *

A week later, Vidic holds an announcement at an Abstergo press conference, regarding the upcoming Abstergo Eye project. 

They scramble, the assassins do, for  _weeks -_ the only thing they find, deep in Abstergo's servers, is one phrase.

_The Shroud of Eden._

* * *

_THIS ISN'T WHAT WAS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN_

Desmond blinked, staggered. He pressed his hands to his head, to try and stop it, stop the echoing, crushing noise - a voice, he thought, but  _too loud,_ too  _bright,_ too  _overpowering_

_WHAT CHANGED HOW DID IT CHANGE WHO CHANGED IT_

"Desmond!" Lucy calls out, reaching out to him. They've found the temple, the one Ezio found, they're here to grab the apple and go but Desmond -

_THIS DOESN'T HAVE TO CHANGE SHE'S STILL A TRAITOR BUT **WHAT CHANGED** THE CALCULATIONS  **HOW DID THEY CHANGE WHO CHANGED THEM MY SAGE DOESN'T EXIST THE ONE WHO TELLS THE TRUTH IS GONE ENTIRELY AND YOU, CIPHER, DESMOND MILES, YOU ARE NOT YOURSELF WHAT HAPPENED -**_

Desmond stumbled, crashed into the pedestal and felt his hand close around the apple.

Then.

something  _happened._

_NO NO NO THIS ISN'T HOW IT WORKS YOU ARE THE CIPHER WHY ISN'T IT WORKING **WHAT HAPPENED**_

There was something very faint, something very quiet, something that echoed in his head, a voice he'd never heard.

_Bitch._

Desmond blinked, and Lucy was dead, and he wasn't in the Temple, and the apple was gone, and Rebecca and Shaun were standing above him. He was on the animus, on Rebecca's baby, and she was about to plug him in.

"Wait," Desmond said, and Rebecca blinked, looked relieved. 

"You're fine then." The Mentor said.

"Mentor," Desmond said, automatically. "What happened?"

"The mission was compromised," William sighed. "Lucy was a Templar."

Desmond had the sudden urge to say  _who wouldn't have been, in her situation, you abandoned her at fifteen and put her with **them** and you  **know** they brainwash people - _but he didn't. He didn't know where that urge came from, in fact.

He'd never had a problem with how his father ran things. That was just how it had to be. 

"I see," Desmond said. "I killed her then." 

He knows he did. He can feel it. Desmond looked around - the apple was gone.

"Where is it?" Desmond said, a hollow feeling in his gut.

"It's too late, Desmond." Rebecca sighed. 

"Abstergo got their hands on it."

* * *

The Abstergo Eye project went through. By the time it launched up into the sky, Desmond didn't know how many assassins were left. 

There was Desmond. Rebecca. Shaun. The Mentor. Two Templar turncoats; Layla and Deanna. 

Six people. That wasn't enough, but it would have to do. 

* * *

They bunkered up in the Grand Temple, because they needed the shelter from the Solar Flare, and that was the best they had. It was too late, to try and find a way through the gate - they'd left it too late, trying to stop the Abstergo Eye project from being launched, trying to make sure they had more than two people left in the entire brotherhood - 

But they still tried. Desmond ran through Haytham's, then Connor's memories, they knew where the key was. They could find it after the Solar Flare; surely tech this advanced could fix what was broken? After all, this had already happened before. Maybe they couldn't stop it, but maybe the Isu knew how to fix it.

As the Flare scorched the earth, Desmond was in a memory, as was Layla. Deanna was sleeping, Rebecca and Shaun were monitoring, and The Mentor was on watch. He knew when it happened, because the cameras they'd set up all cut out, at the same time, at the same exact moment.

"Rebecca," William said.

"Yeah, Bill?" She asked.

"Get them out of there," He said. 

"... Yeah, Bill." She murmured, and unplugged Desmond. Shaun did the same for Layla, then woke Deanna. 

The six of them looked at each other, then at the static, cut feeds on William's screens.

"So the world ended, then." Desmond said. 

"I guess that's it." Layla said. "We're done for."

"We can still-"

"There's nothing left."

"Just us. Just them."

"The eye didn't work."

"They had bunkers, you know that. They'll be around, still. Hundreds, thousands."

"It's their world now."

"We are not stopping fighting." The Mentor said. 

" _Dad,"_ Desmond snapped, feeling something strongly, something he couldn't name. He hadn't called William Dad in a long time, and the use of it caught William Miles off guard.

"We're fucked," Desmond said. "The Templars  _won._ Everyone's  _dead._ We're gonna starve down here in a few weeks if they don't find us first.  _Give it a rest."_

With that Desmond jogged off. He clambered up the walls, to the places where the power cubes should go.

They hadn't gotten enough of them in time, either. 

_THIS SHOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED_

_"Give it a fucking **rest!"**_ Desmond yelled at the apparition. Juno, or whichever one it was - he didn't  _care._

_WHAT DID YOU DO DIFFERENTLY -_

_**OH. I SEE.**  
_

"What?" Desmond demanded. "You see what? Do you see the 'moment where it all changed'?" He asked, snide - Desmond glared up at her, suddenly furious, suddenly  _emotional._

_**THEY DID A NUMBER ON YOU, DESMOND MILES. IN THE NAME OF KEEPING YOU SAFE.** _

"What are you  _talking_ about?" Desmond asked, exasperated. 

_THEY COULDN'T LET YOU LEAVE, THOSE SONS OF CAIN WHO DID NOT AGREE WITH HIM AND HIS ORDER. AND AS MUCH AS THE TEMPLARS ARE FOND OF BRAINWASHING, YOUR PEOPLE ARE NOT SO DIFFERENT._

"What are you talking about?" Desmond asked, but there was a sinking feeling in his gut. 

_NOT AS DRASTIC, IT LOOKS. SIMPLE, EASY TO FIX, EVEN TRAPPED AS I AM. JUST MEMORIES, LOCKED AWAY. FEELINGS. A SHODDY JOB. YOU'VE NEVER FELT MUCH OF ANYTHING AS LONG AS YOU CAN REMEMBER, HAVE YOU?_

Desmond glared at Juno, glared at everything. 

_WHAT BROKE IT, I WONDER? THE ANIMUS? THE CHANGES? THE FLARE? NO MATTER._

**_I'LL FIX THIS, CIPHER. THIS IS NOT HOW IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE, DESMOND MILES. IT IS NOT._ **

"That sounds like denial," Desmond said. "I've had enough of your bullshit, Juno. Get to the fucking point."

_... IF THAT IS WHAT YOU **WISH,** DESMOND MILES. _

**_I WILL DIE REGARDLESS. THE POWER WILL FAIL AND I WILL CEASE TO EXIST. IT IS TOO LATE TO FREE ME. BUT NOT TOO LATE TO GET WHAT I WANT FROM YOU._ **

"Which is what?" Desmond asked, warily.

_LISTEM TO ME CAREFULLY, DESMOND MILES. YOU ARE THE CIPHER. YOU CAN FIX THIS. YOU CAN HELP HUMANITY RISE ABOVE THE END, YOU CAN HELP THE EARTH HEAL. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO, IS USE THE APPLE..._

_AND LET GO._

**_THEY MADE THAT PART EASY FOR YOU. LETTING GO. EMOTIONS COME HARDER TO YOU THAN THEY SHOULD, THAT IS TRUE. YOU FEEL TOO LITTLE AND TOO MUCH. I CAN FIX THAT. HOLD THE APPLE. CALL TO ME. I WILL ANSWER._ **

Desmond feels the same sort of strange lack of control he had when Lucy had died - he blinked, and he had the apple in hand.

"Desmond," Rebecca said. "Listen to me, man, Desmond, put it down."

"Yes, Desmond, stop messing around with that Apple of Eden," Shaun scoffed. "It's pointless. You said so yourself."

"Pointless for you, maybe." Desmond hears. 

He's the one saying it. 

 ** _NOT FOR ME._**  

"Not for me."

**_I CAN FIX THIS._ **

" **I can fix this."**

_**NOW CALL ME.** _

_**"Juno."** _

Desmond's world went  _black._

* * *

"The satellite's still up, sir," Desmond heard. "The apple protected it, just."

"Good," Desmond said. "Good. Thank you, Lucy."

Lucy inclined her head, then moved to leave his office. 

"One thing, Lucy," Desmond said, and the woman froze, before turning to look at him. 

"What?" She asked. Desmond shot her in the head.

"Body disposal, please," Desmond said, into the intercom. 

"I'll dispose of _you_ one of these days," Shaun grumbled in reply, and Desmond  _laughed._

* * *

**_I CAN FIX THIS._ **

**_I CAN FIX THIS._**

**_I CAN FIX THIS..._ **

* * *

_YOU HAVE A SON._

Haytham jolted. "What?" He asked the air, glancing around.

_THE WOMAN. SHE HAD A SON AFTER YOU IMPREGNATED HER. THE AMERICAN NATIVE._

Haytham took pause. He was dreaming, he could tell by the way reality was distorted. But - he'd seen records, read old manuscripts...

This was one of The Ones Who Came Before. One of the Creators of Pieces of Eden. He could tell, simply by her sheer  _presence._

_YOUR SON, HE EXISTS. IN HER HOME. YOUR ALLY WILL BURN IT DOWN, KILL HER. HE WILL SWEAR REVENGE. YOU WILL DIE AT HIS HAND. UNLESS YOU STOP IT. UNLESS YOU STOP THAT FROM HAPPENING. UNLESS YOU RAISE HIM. UNLESS YOU SAVE HER._

Haytham woke. The first thing he did was leave the Order Headquarters he was staying in, and the second order passage to the place Kaniehtí:io lived. 

* * *

"Grand Master," Connor bowed his head.

"Son," Haytham returned. "What news do you bring?"

"Charles Lee was staging a coup of sorts, father," Connor told him. "He is dead by my blade."

"Good," Haytham said, as he thought back to the Isu's warning. "Have you found the key?"

"Yes, Father," Connor said. 

"And?" Haytham asked.

Connor reached into his pocket and handed it over to Haytham.

**_DO NOT USE THE KEY. WAIT. KEEP IT SAFE. FOR YOUR DESCENDANT, DESMOND MILES._ **

"I've heard that name before," Haytham murmured. 

**_IT IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE. YOU ARE TO DELIVER THIS TO DESMOND MILES, NOTHING MORE, NOTHING LESS._ **

"How will he know where it is?" Haytham asked.

**_HE IS HERE NOW. HELLO, DESMOND._ **

**_I HAVE MANY THINGS PLANNED FOR YOU._ **

* * *

Desmond gasped and sat up, bolted upright in the animus. Clay frowned over at him, and The Mentor quickly approached, checked his temperature.

"Mom, I'm fine," Desmond said. "Your vitals disagree, seventeen," Clay said. 

"Oh, fuck off, Kaczmarek," Desmond said.

"Language," Elizabeth admonished. "What happened? What did you see? We couldn't get any readings - nothing was recording properly, the feed was all distorted."

"Yeah, it was useless," Rebecca was tinkering with the animus already. "I don't know  _what_ happened, but the whole thing blew..." She trailed off, as she poked at the wiring.

"Take a break, dear," Elizabeth said. "Now, Desmond - tell me."

"I'm not sure," Desmond said. "Haytham Kenway and his son, Connor Kenway - and a... ghost? Golden, really - bright; hard to look at." Desmond paused. "She... said she had plans for me."

"Not at all ominous," Clay said, dryly. 

"Clay," Elizabeth admonished. "Not now. What happened, can you remember?"

"Connor gave his dad the key," Desmond said. "And the ghost said - said that Haytham was to deliver it to me? Somehow?"

"So in his memories, you'll find where he put it, and through that, he'll have delivered it to you." Elizabeth frowned, lightly. "Clay does this sound -"

"Like The Truth?" Clay asked. "The Ones That Came Before? Because from all records, yeah, this is that."

"Connor and his Dad were Templars," Desmond said. Elizabeth winced.

"Bit of a blight on our history," She admitted. "But we're all from Cain here, so..." Clay trailed off, grinning. His time in Abstergo as a plant wasn't kind to him, having to put subjects through everything, and forcing himself to use the animus as much as he could - 

It wasn't kind to him. 

"Indeed." Elizabeth stood back. "Anything else to report?" She asked.

"No, Mentor," Desmond said, professional for a moment. "Nothing I can think of."

"Relax, then," She said. "We'll send you out for another power source later."

* * *

 **_WHAT ELSE_ ** _WHAT ELSE I NEED TO MAKE IT SO BUT THERE IS SO MUCH IN FLUX_

_\- AH. YES._

**_AT LEAST CAIN WAS USEFUL FOR SOMETHING._ **

* * *

"You're an Assassin, Desmond. Like your mother before you and my father before me-"

**_"Liar."_ **

Desmond blinked. That didn't sound much like him - but the word had come from his mouth all the same.

"Your father was a Templar," Desmond said, as if a mouthpiece for something  _else._ "Mom was a Templar spy.  _You're_ the family's black sheep,  _Mentor._ Not them. Not me."

"That is a  _dangerous_ statement to make, Desmond," William said, with narrowed eyes. "What do you mean by it?"

"I'm leaving," Desmond said. "All of this. And you can't stop me."

"Can I not?" William asked. 

"You can't," Desmond said.

"I poisoned your drink." 

* * *

"Desmond Miles," Callum Lynch glances over at him. "I heard about you. From the others."

Desmond sighed and lowered his datapad. "Look, man," He said, "I'm as excited about this shit as you are, alright? We just wanna have a look at your ancestors, and then we'll let you live in the bunker, like the rest of the civilians. You never wanted this life, neither did I. We're just doing our part to make sure we can leave it - and for you, that means using the animus. Honestly, you're pretty lucky. It wasn't as nice when I used it."

"How do I know you're not lying?" Callum asked. "You betrayed the brotherhood."

 _"No."_ Desmond snapped, angrily, as he stepped closer. Something of a warning flared in Callum's head - there was a tint of gold to the younger man's eyes, and his arm - the burned one, the one which  _proved_ First Civilization tech  _worked -_ glowing eerily in the low light. " ** _They stole me._** _From my mother, from my family._ My  **father,"** And that, the man  _spat,_ like something horrible, evil, like what Callum had been taught to think of the Templars as - "My father lied to me. Said the Templars killed her. They didn't.  _He did."_

Callum could relate to fathers killing their child's mother.

"I'll help," Callum said. "One thing."

"What?" Desmond asked.

"Take me to my father. I know he's here. I want him dead."

"Deal," Desmond said. Callum stood, and Desmond led him out of the room. There was a cell across from Callum. The man inside never moved.

"Bit sad, what happened to him, really," Desmond said. "But he knew what he was getting into. That's the assassins' fault, by the way," The man added, glancing over to the cell. His grip tightened on the datapad. "Clay Kaczmarek, subject sixteen. I was seventeen." Desmond paused in speech, as they walked past a few guards. "Vidic treated us... okay, I guess. But Clay... he just wasn't wired for it. The Bleeding Effect got to him, and it's all  _William's fault."_ Desmond's datapad gave in with a loud  _crack,_ and the man tossed it aside. His blackened fist clenched tightly around nothing. "He sent him in there. Sent him into Abstergo as a plant, even though he knew they tested people's DNA, even though he knew that was how I was found, even though he knew Clay wouldn't be able to withstand the weight of his ancestors."

"What happened?" Callum asked.

"Clay tried to kill himself," Desmond said, shortly. "I stopped him. Killed Lucy, the  _traitor,_ told Vidic where the Farm was. After that, Vidic died mysteriously-" Callum raised an eyebrow -"And I took over the department, thanks to the AI Clay had left behind. Nothing I've found so far can fix the real him, and the AI's long gone. I don't think anything can help Clay's brain, to be honest."

"You think I can withstand it?" Callum asked.

"I know you can," Desmond said. "It's in your genetics. I've learned a  _lot_ more than I ever thought I would about that shit, by the way, but it is useful, I guess." Desmond turned a corner, and they were in the Animus chamber.

"Here we are," Desmond said. "Hey, Sofia."

"Desmond," Dr Sofia Rikkin glanced over to him. "You got him to agree? Great. I'll take it from here."

"Sure," Desmond said. He saluted them lazily, and then was off.

"Very useful man to have around, Desmond Miles is," Sofia said. "Come on, Callum. Let's start, shall we?"

* * *

**_ALAN RIKKIN IS DEAD._ **

Sofia's head jerked up. "What?" She croaked out, as she tried to clear sleep from her eyes. 

**_YOUR FATHER IS DEAD. HE NEEDED TO DIE. LEAVE IT BE. DON'T ASK. DON'T ANSWER. FORGET IT. IT IS NOT OF YOUR CONCERN._ **

**_"It is not of my concern,"_** Sofia murmured and fell back asleep. 

* * *

"Is it..." Lucy hesitated. "Isn't it wrong, what we're doing?"

Desmond looked out through the 'window' to the outside world. Hundreds of people could be seen - mostly civilians, the rest Assasins - constructing things. Buildings, power lines, solar panels, sewage.

Temples. Statues. 

" _ **It is what needs to be done,"**_ He echoed. 

Lucy winced, rubbed lightly at her ear. "Right," She said. 

"Wait." Desmond turned. "Didn't I already kill you?"

Lucy blinked at him, winced, and then sighed. 

**_THE ACT NEEDS WORK. YOU NEED TO NOT ASK. DON'T QUESTION. DON'T ANSWER. LEAVE HER BE. SHE IS YOUR ASSISTANT. I AM HERE. SHE IS ME. I AM NOT HER. I AM... CHECKING IF IT WORKED._ **

"Did it?" Desmond asked.

" ** _YES,"_** Not-Lucy said, then coughed. "Did what?" She asked, confused.

"Nothing." Desmond turned back to the window. "How is Rebecca?" He asked, suddenly curious.

"Pleased," She said. "Content, I suppose. Her, Layla, the others - their advancements have been instrumental to our current success."

"Give them all a raise, then," Desmond said. "I know she's wanted a promotion for a while, figure out something that'll sound cool but not give her much more power."

"Of course," Lucy said, and then turned to leave.

"And Lucy?" Desmond asked. Lucy froze, then turned to look back at him.

"Wear a different face, next time." He commanded. 

**_I CANNOT. SHE CANNOT. I COULD ONLY ACCESS THIS DEATH THROUGH THE APPLE, NO OTHERS. NO OTHER RECENT ONES THAT COULD BE STOPPED. YOU MAY KILL HER IF YOU LIKE. WE WILL ONLY RETURN. THE SHROUD HAS NO BOUNDS. EXCEPT FOR MENTAL ONES._ **

"It won't work on Clay, then," Desmond concluded, as he shot Lucy.

_NO. IT WILL NOT._

"Good to know," Desmond said, as he turned to look back out to the earth's surface. Across the remaining landmasses, people were rebuilding. The Eyes in the sky telling them what to do and how to do it - efficient. Orderly. Desmond kind of hated it, but they needed it, right now, and they'd need it, later, to make sure no wars break out while Civilization builds itself up again. 

Desmond turned away from the window and walked over to the intercom.

"Body Disposal, please," Desmond said. "And make a note - the Shroud can't heal mental deaths. Only full ones."

"Maybe try killing him and resurrecting the body, then," Shaun said. "As I've  _said,_ multiple times..."

"Not yet," Desmond replied, like always. "Fine! Fine, just - get off the line, Desmond, I have work to do."

Desmond hung up. He picked up his (new) datapad and left the room. 

* * *

"Where'd everything go wrong, d'you think?" Rebecca asked. Layla downed a shot of vodka.

"I don't know," Shaun said, plainly. "Maybe for me it was when the Templars found me first, then deemed me too useful to die."

"When Miles - the Assassin of the family - cut all times with me at the tender age of fifteen, then sent me packing straight into Abstergo's clutches," Lucy said, downing her own shot. 

"When I tried to turn turncoat," Layla chimed in. "Not fun, don't recommend. Have you seen Deanna around here anywhere?"

"Yeah, she went to get more drinks," Lucy lied, "What about you, 'Becca?"

"When the world ended," She said. "I was an assassin 'til the end, literally. The only other one at that point was Bill, though, so I figured - well, at least with the Templars I'll  _possibly_ live. And besides, all my friends are there."

"Dumb," Layla said. "Should've just died in the Flare."

"Dying doesn't work," Lucy reminded her. "I'm here."

"Sixteen's still here, though I'm pretty sure he died at one point," Shaun said, frowning. 

"No, don't know where you got _that_ from," Lucy said, sharply. Rebecca winced, and Layla rubbed at her ear. 

**_THAT NEVER HAPPENED. IT DIDN'T HAPPEN HERE. IT HAPPENED THEN. FORGET. IT CHANGED. DON'T ASK. DON'T ANSWER. HE NEVER DIED HERE. SO HE COULDN'T DIE THERE._ **

"Yeah," Shaun said, his voice steady but the hand holding his drink shaking slightly. "Sorry, no idea." 

* * *

"The Templars don't really exist any more, do they?" Elijah asked.

"No, dear," His mother sighed. "No. It's just your father and the New Order."

"It's assassins and templars forced into one thing, isn't it?"

"It's not his, either."

"Of course it's his!"

"Statues don't lie."

"There are more of Her."

"That's Her, though, she's different, she's a  _real_ god."

"He's a god too!"

"Not in the same way!"

"Is too!"

"Kids!" She yelled out, and the students quietened. "Please don't make me have to send you through another politics course. Juno rules Above. The New Order, and their Leader, Desmond Miles, run Terra, which is what we call Earth now the world ended because it's not the same as it was Before. It's that simple. Now  _please,_ get back to your times' tables..." 

* * *

"It's not so bad, really." Layla said. Rebecca threw a pillow at her.

"I'm serious!" Layla said. "I mean, slave labour; wrong on all accounts, we should kill Desmond for the audacity - but... Earth's  _thriving,_ isn't it?" She glances around the dorm. "I mean. We're really helping the planet heal. And we're doing one better - we're improving on what we had before the Flare. Our tech..." Layla shook her head. "We can build cities in weeks now, not years, not months, but  _weeks._ That's crazy! There's even fewer people dying because of construction accidents."

"But it's  _slavery,"_ Shaun said, disparagingly. "You aren't wrong; this is never before seen progress. But at what cost?"

"... She's right," Rebecca sighed. "There's no way to fight any more. If we tried, we'd just be put under the Eyes like the rest of them down there, we couldn't do  _anything._ At least here, we've got influence. You two even talk to Des on a regular basis."

"Whatever that Eye did, it changed him," Shaun sighed. "Maybe it's not even him anymore. Maybe it's Juno."

"... Maybe," Lucy said. "Maybe  _you're_ Juno."

Rebecca snorted and Layla laughed. "Oh, shove off," Shaun said. "I'm just postulating-"

"You shove off," Lucy grinned, sitting up. "Shaun, please. Desmond, Juno? Come on. I talk to him way more than you do, and he's definitely not her." She sobered. "He's... not himself, though. Nowhere close."

Shaun sighed. "I best be off," He said, standing. 

"Say hi to Clay for me," Lucy said.

"Sure," Shaun nodded, then left the room. 

* * *

**_BETTER. BETTER. BETTER._ **

**_BUT NOT QUITE._ **

**_NOT YET._ **

**_SOMETHING._ **

**_ELSE._ **

**_MAYBE -_ **

**_NO. I STILL DIE._ **

**_I SEE. NOTHING. EVEN HERE. EVEN IF I ANCHOR. NOTHING. I DIE._ **

**_MABYE -_ **

**_NO. THE SAGE... I STILL DIE._ **

**_STILL DIE._ **

**_DIE._ **

**_I DIE._ **

**_NO! NO, I CAN'T!_ **

"But you will," Desmond said, quietly, as he reached out to the eye. "And eventually I'll die too. And the Earth can fix itself, like last time - but unlike last time, none of this will be hanging over their heads. They'll just have what they need to protect themselves when the time comes."

_How are you? - But this CHANGED you weren't HERE-_

_MINERVA._

**_NO! NO!_ **

**_NO!_ **

**_No!_ **

**_no!_ **

**_no._ **

**_no._ **

**_no..._ **

* * *

"How did you change the calculations?" Juno demanded.

Minerva gave as close to a smile as an Isu could manage. "I told him The Truth." She said. "He changed it for himself."

"But he  _dies,"_ She said, desperately.

"Eventually." Minerva agreed. "Yes."

"But - if he dies -"

"Our last link is gone. Elijah is a Sage, so he doesn't quite count. That's your fault, you know."

"HOW WAS I TO KNOW?" She screeched.

"You weren't. That was the point," Minerva said. "And the calculations have changed. You are dead, Juno, even as we speak because it is inevitable."

"No _,"_ Juno said.

Minerva smiled (or as close to such as an Isu could get), triumphant. " _Yes._

_"And Earth will **thrive** without you._

_"Without the Templars. Without the assassins. Without Us, without the Second Civilizations._

_"Earth will thrive. And there is no way for you to enslave them, this time."_

* * *

The bunkers were dark and cold - but the flare didn't hit. Clay thanked whatever he could think of as he left the underground among a throng of other equally grateful people.

Something felt off, though. Ever since he'd woken up. See, Clay had had the  _strangest_ dream - but. He'd already forgotten it, as one tended to do.

Clay called Rebecca. "Did you make it out?" He asked. "Yeah," She said. "Got knocked out - place nearly fell down around us, we're fucking lucky the entrance didn't cave in."

"How'd you do it?" Clay asked. 

"I don't really remember," Rebecca admitted. "Long-term memory loss, Doc says. We've all got it."

"Shame," Clay said. 

"It's really weird, though," Rebecca said. "I feel like something's missing."

"... Yeah," Clay said. "I just... feel weird in general. It's - odd, but I just... it's like I've been asleep for a very long time. And now... I'm awake again, and everything's - different."

"Really?" Rebecca paused. "Bill said the same. More like - like he'd been dead, then came back to life. I just - I just feel like something's missing. Like... like - Doc says im showing signs of mourning, and maybe that's for Lucy, but... it's been a long time since she died, and... I don't know. That doesn't sound right."

There was something - just out of reach.  _The Truth,_ Clay thought, then frowned. 

"Maybe the Isu did something," Clay said. "The Ones That Came Before. Maybe they really did save us all."

"Seems like it," Rebecca said. "How were the bunkers?"

"Not bad," Clay said. "First-Civ humans knew what they were doing."

"Sure did," Rebecca agreed. "... Clay?" She hesitated. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Clay said. "Drugs wore off during my stay in the bunker. Whatever the Templars did, it's over now."

"That's good," Rebecca sighed - there was static, the shifting of fabric against the mic as she moved. "Shaun's checking Abstergo out - they're close to bankruptcy. I mean, the Templars have been loosing funds for years, now, but... I don't think they expected the world to survive the Flare. They'll be caught by the start of next year, he says, even without his help."

"Good," Clay said, somewhat of a vicious smile spreading across his face.

"I know," Rebecca nodded. "That'll put us on an even field."

There was a pause.

"I feel like something's missing too," Clay said, abruptly. "Like... I don't know. Just, ever since I woke up... something's been...  _off."_

"I thought I was going crazy - or, I would have, if the others didn't feel the same." Rebecca paused, considering. "There's not much we can do about it though, Clay. Since we don't even know what's gone."

"I know," Clay said. 

_"I know."_

* * *

 

_"Do you have any regrets, Bill?"_

_"... Yes, Clay, I do._

_Never having any children. And losing my wife to something - so very preventable."_

_"Good."_

_"Do you?"_

_"Everyone does, Bill. Some more than others."_

_"You don't have to keep being an assassin. The Templars are gone, now."_

_"I know. That's why I'm here."_

_"To resign?"_

_"To quit, yes."_

_"Good luck, then, Clay."_

_"I hope I don't see you again."_

* * *

Layla shot up in bed, gasping for breath.

"Layla?" Deanna asked, sitting up. "Something wrong?"

"No," Layla shook her head, confusion taking over. "No - I -"

Layla furrowed her brows. "No," She shook her head. "I was - we're going to apply for a new job tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah," Deanna said. "Now that Abstergo went bankrupt, we can't exactly keep working there."

"Right," Layla said. "Right, obviously."

"Sleep, Layla," Deanna said. "You need it."

Layla nodded and lay back down.

( _Something niggled on her mind - something that told her quite plainly that **something was off -** but nothing bad was going on, and Layla had a distinct feeling that whatever was off, was making things  **better.**_

_So. She ignored that feeling.)_

* * *

  _Desmond woke, somewhere, nowhere._

_"Hello, Cipher," Minerva said, Tinia said._

**_"_ _Welcome home."_ **

**_"It's time for us to rest, Desmond Miles. It's time for you, too."_ **

* * *

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe this whole thing is over??? like wow, I did That. Oh my god. If you read the entire thing, all forty-thousand + words of it, thanks so much!!! If you read some of it, thanks a bunch!!! If you just gave it a go, then thanks for that, too!!! Basically just thanks for reading :). I have some Ideas for future Claysmond fics floating about in my head, but if you want anything quicker then prompting me on my tumblr, @cescalr, is way more likely to yield results. Also, I'm totally open to continuing any of these in their own thing - except for that last one... come hmu on tumblr for an explanation of wtf was going on behind the semi-Juno's perspective if you want one, but it's concluded. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it!!
> 
> edit: also for some reason it says i finished this the day i posted it??? i didn't. The final update for this fic was made today, 04/02/2019 - written the English way; month second.


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